BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


OUTDOORS 


OUTDOORS 

A  BOOK  OF  THE  WOODS,  FIELDS 
AND  MARSHLANDS 


BY 

ERNEST    McGAFFEY 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW    YORK  :::::::::::::::::  1907 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,  April,  1907 

BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


H)4- 


BIOLOGY 
LIBRARY 


TO 
JOHN    F.   SMULSKI 

OF    CHICAGO 


NOTE 

For  permission  to  republish  thirty  of  the  within 
sketches,  the  author  is  indebted  to  the  kindness  of 
Victor  F.  Lawson  of  the  Chicago  Record ;  for 
permission  as  to  the  other  two,  to  the  courtesy  of 
William  Marion  Reedy  of  the  St.  Louis  Mirror 
and  S.  T.  Clover  of  the  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MARSHES  IN  APRIL      ......     .     .       r 

PLOVER  SHOOTING 10 

THE  MELANCHOLY  CRANE  .  *  .....  19 
FISHING  FOR  BIG-MOUTH  BASS  .  .  .  .  .  26 

FLIGHT  OF  COMMON  BIRDS .     .     34 

FISHING  FOR  CRAPPIE  ...  .  ';'.  »  .  .  .  43 
IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  THE  LOON  .  .  .  .  .  51 
BLUEBILLS  AND  DECOYS  .  .  .  ...  .  .  60 

WALKING  AS  AN  ART *    .     .     69 

FISHING  FOR  "BULL-HEADS"  .     .     ...    .     .     77 

ALONG  A  COUNTRY  ROAD    .     .     .     .     .     .     .     86 

WOODCOCK  SHOOTING 95 

UNDER  A  GREENWOOD-TREE 103 

PAN-FISHING in 

A  NORTHERN  NIGHTINGALE 120 

SQUIRREL  SHOOTING 128 

DOWN  THE  ST.  JOE  RIVER 136 

vii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BROOK-TROUT  FISHING 144 

A  MASQUE  OF  THE  SEASONS 153 

WOODCHUCKS 162 

FROG-HUNTING 171 

THE  CROW'S  WING  .  .  .  .  *  .  .  .  .179 
PRAIRIE-CHICKEN  SHOOTING  •..•.•.;..  *  .  .  187 
A  Fox  IN  THE  MERAMEC  VALLEY  .  .  .  .195 

FALL  JACK-SNIPE  SHOOTING 204 

IN  DIM  OCTOBER  .     ........     .213 

RUFFED  GROUSE 222 

IN  PRAIRIE  LANDS 231 

HUNTING  WITH  FERRETS      .......  239 

THE  BARE,  BROWN  FIELDS 247 

QUAIL  SHOOTING 255 

IN  WINTER  WOODS 263 


vin 


OUTDOORS 


THE   MARSHES   IN  APRIL 

THE  marshes  in  April  begin  to  show 
a  livelier  green,  and  to  deck  their 
edges  with  various  bright  colors. 
Nearly  every  trace  of  winter  has  been  blotted 
out.  The  dead  sedge  is  hidden  by  sheets  of 
emerald  grass,  and  only  in  some  out-of-the- 
way  corners  is  there  a  hint  of  the  ravages 
which  mark  the  path  of  the  months  gone  by. 
In  these  nooks  one  may  find  a  clump  of  faded 
cat-tails,  their  stalks  broken  or  bent,  their 
rusty  brown  heads  flaking  off  and  scattering 
as  the  winds  go  over.  Violets  spring  up  on 
the  outer  skirts  of  the  swampy  spots,  together 
with  little  starry  flowers  of  white  and  yellow, 
hardly  noticeable  to  the  careless  comer.  Bul- 
rushes rise  in  olive-green  masses,  their  grace- 
ful tips  tilting  to  the  silent  waters.  Willows, 
stunted  and  sparse,  stand  here  and  there, 
the  furry  "  catkins  "  of  March  having  been 
superseded  by  the  more  mature  buddings. 
The  distant  timber-lines  are  still  black,  but 
I 


OUTDOORS 


soon  will  lighten  with  countless  hosts  of  shim- 
mering leaves.  The  rushes  and  canes,  the 
wild-rice  and  tawny  marsh-grass,  brood  over  a 
waste  of  dreaming  pools  and  lonely  stretches. 

Musk-rat  houses  dot  the  shallower  por- 
tions of  the  marsh,  dusky  heaps  of  rushes, 
piled  high  by  the  industry  of  these  cunning 
water-rats.  In  many  places  the  water  is  am- 
ber-hued,  darkened  by  slivers  of  decaying 
reeds  and  shadowed  by  the  overhanging 
cover.  In  some  niches  it  holds  the  sunlight 
as  a  goblet  holds  wine,  with  sparkles  at  the 
rim,  and  beaded  bubbles  welling  up  to  break 
upon  the  surface.  All  this  marks  the  silences 
of  the  marsh,  the  ineffable  sadness  tinged  with 
a  yearning  joy — as  a  nun's  face  might  light 
with  a  smile  at  sight  of  a  sleeping  child. 

The  weather-beaten  lines  of  an  old  skiff, 
deserted  and  rotting,  lie  in  one  of  the  coves, 
and  beside  it  a  school  of  tadpoles  wriggle  in 
inky  density.  On  the  boat's  bow  a  solitary 
mud-turtle  dozes  in  the  sun,  his  black  and 
yellow  markings  proclaiming  his  ancient  and 
honorable  race.  Myriads  of  glistening  wa- 
ter-bugs dart  back  and  forth  over  the  water, 
weaving  a  maze  of  invisible  lines  across  its 

2 


THE    MARSHES   IN    APRIL 

glassy  floor.  Marsh-spiders  stretch  silky 
threads,  filmy  with  dew,  from  reed  to  reed, 
and  this  tether  sways  in  silvery  lightness  with 
every  wandering  gust.  The  little  black  rails 
dodge  in  and  out  of  the  rushes,  their  rapid, 
noiseless  movements  giving  only  a  hint  of 
their  passing.  Further  inshore,  where  the 
denser  growth  tangles  into  a  brake,  the  hol- 
low, guttural  cry  of  a  bittern  comes  mourn- 
fully out  at  intervals. 

Sometimes  a  red-winged  blackbird  perches 
on  a  cat-tail  stalk,  and  sends  out  a  joyous 
whistle  of  the  most  care-free  abandon.  Some- 
times the  cow-blackbirds  fly  over  in  long 
flocks,  without  a  sound.  And  at  odd  times 
the  crow-blackbirds,  the  red-wings  and  the 
cow-birds  sweep  across  in  a  scattered  mass, 
chattering  and  clacking,  to  spread  suddenly  in 
irregularly  fan-shaped  curves,  and  light  when 
they  reach  the  trees  beyond.  Occasionally  a 
journeying  "  flicker "  is  seen  flying  from 
one  point  of  woods  to  another  across  the 
marshes.  His  strong  wings  flail  the  atmos- 
phere with  regular  strokes,  his  curving  flight, 
with  its  up-and-down  dips,  soon  covers  the 
distance  between,  and  perched  on  a  topmost 

3 


OUTDOORS 


branch  of  some  oak  or  hickory  he  poses  statue- 
like,  a  bright  fleck  in  the  sunlight. 

Marsh-hawks,  or  u  harriers,"  their  broad 
wings  tacking  here  and  there,  sail  warily  about 
these  wildernesses.  They  are  great  hunters  of 
mice  and  such  small  deer,  and  the  plover, 
snipe,  rail,  and  other  birds  are  their  lawful 
prey.  And  woe  to  the  wounded  duck  that 
has  escaped  the  hunters  when  this  freebooter 
discovers  his  whereabouts.  There  is  a  poise,  a 
dart,  a  finishing  of  what  man  commenced,  and 
only  scattered  feathers  to  tell  the  story.  If 
you  push  a  duck-boat  into  the  more  remote 
fens  you  may  be  rewarded  by  seeing  a  brace 
of  belated  mallards  rise  from  the  bogs,  their 
long  necks  reaching  out,  and  usually  a  startled 
"  quack,  quack,  quack "  issuing  from  their 
opened  bills. 

Or  maybe  a  lone  teal  will  scurry  past,  the 
very  sense  of  music  in  his  flight,  the  least 
possible  crisping  of  the  air  to  mark  his  sym- 
metrical course.  No  painter  can  draw  a  line 
on  canvas  like  the  flight  of  wild-fowl  along 
the  sky. 

Where  the  shallow  "  slues "  extend  out 
from  the  marsh  the  "  tip-ups "  stay,  those 
4 


THE    MARSHES   IN   APRIL 

spotted  sand-pipers  whose  grotesque  bobbing 
up  and  down  have  given  them  their  nick- 
names. They  are  oftenest  found  singly,  and 
they  assume  such  an  absurd  air  of  importance 
at  the  sight  of  a  man,  that  it  might  be  imag- 
ined they  were  first  in  the  list  of  game-birds. 
They  will  run  a  few  paces,  tilt  their  bodies 
up  and  down,  skim  along  a  few  yards  far- 
ther, bob  again,  and  finally  take  wing  in  a 
jerky,  irregular  way  with  a  petulant  cry  at 
being  disturbed. 

Along  the  sides  of  these  little  "  slues,"  at 
the  edges  and  among  the  boggy  spots,  the 
jack-snipe,  true  game-bird  and  cunning,  hides. 
You  will  not  see  him  one  time  in  five  hun- 
dred until  he  flies.  And  then  with  what  a 
bound  he  is  in  the  air,  twisting,  gyrating, 
and  reeling  off  the  yards  of  space.  He 
usually  gets  up  with  a  startled  "  skeap, 
skeap,"  as  if  he  could  not  rid  himself  of 
nervousness  at  the  nearness  of  man.  If  he 
has  not  been  shot  at  much,  he  may  pitch 
down  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  yards  away, 
spreading  out  his  wings  as  he  lights  so  that 
you  can  see  the  barred  appearance  of  his  un- 
der wing  feathers.  In  the  fields  next  to  the 

5 


OUTDOORS 


marshes  the  slue-grass  is  occasionally  cut  by 
some  marsh-dweller  and  piled  along  the  drier 
reaches  of  land.  And  here,  especially  if  cat- 
tle have  tramped  it  over  and  wallowed  it 
about  without  breaking  down,  but  only  scat- 
tering the  cover,  the  jack-snipe  are  often 
found  in  great  numbers.  They  will  rise 
singly  and  in  doubles,  some  starting  up  into 
the  air,  and  some  skimming  along  close  to 
the  ground. 

If  a  pair  of  them  flush,  and  they  are  birds 
that  have  been  hunted  much,  it  is  interesting 
to  watch  their  manoeuvres.  They  will  rise 
high  in  the  air  until  they  are  mere  dim  specks, 
and  only  an  experienced  and  steady  eye  can 
follow  the  irregular  pencillings  of  their  flight 
through  the  sky.  Here  and  there  they  will 
swerve,  veer,  and  tack,  passing  from  one 
cloud-vista  to  another.  Finally  they  will  be- 
gin to  descend.  The  speck  becomes  a  dot, 
the  dot  grows  to  a  small  shadow,  the  shadow 
is  etched  into  a  bird.  And  after  a  few  min- 
utes, if  a  man  remains  motionless,  they  will 
swing  in  toward  where  they  were  flushed  and 
dart  into  cover,  sometimes  within  fifty  yards 
of  the  spot  from  whence  they  first  rose. 
6 


THE    MARSHES   IN   APRIL 

In  spite  of  the  life  and  light  and  color 
about  it,  the  key-note  of  a  marsh  is  its  ex- 
treme sense  of  loneliness. 

"  A  land  that  is  lonelier  than  ruin,"  and 
the  pervading  essence  of  it  all  is  a  gentle 
melancholy.  Storms  are  out  of  place  here 
where  no  trees  loom  to  rock  before  the  blasts. 
Much  rest  and  languor  seem  natural  to  these 
wide  savannas  of  waving  grass  and  sleeping 
water,  framed  in  by  far-down  rims  of  utter- 
most horizon.  The  signs  of  man  are  few — 
perhaps  a  decaying  fragment  of  a  "  push- 
er's "  paddle,  or  the  dismantled  outlines  of  a 
duck  "  blind."  At  times  the  faint  report  of 
a  hunter's  gun  and  its  accompanying  wraith 
of  pale  smoke,  tell  of  some  sportsman  plod- 
ding along  in  the  marsh. 

Above  the  reeds  there  is  a  level  sea  of 
silence.  And  there  is  little  to  tell  of  change. 
The  trailing  folds  of  a  snow-storm  fade  and 
sink  in  these  watery  coverts  of  marsh  growth, 
and  the  sleet  finds  no  twigs  to  girdle  with 
clinging  ice.  All  tokens  in  all  seasons  bear 
with  them  the  message  of  deep  reserve  and 
a  drawing  away  from  the  world's  clamor. 
And  even  in  the  varying  moods  of  April  the 

7 


OUTDOORS 


swift-winged  showers  emphasize  this  feeling, 
as  a  man  stands  midway  of  herdless  solitudes 
while  the  storm  descends,  and. sees 

"  the  empty  pastures,  blind  with  rain.' 

The  sky  is  as  changeable  as  the  wind  in 
these  early  days.  Sometimes  it  is  very  blue, 
with  now  and  then  light  flakes  of  snowy 
clouds  scattered  across;  and  then  it  will  be  a 
leaden  gray,  with  wimpled  skeins  of  cloud- 
film  blown  across.  And  sometimes  the  vast 
void  is  a  majestic  dome,  pictured  with  a  mov- 
ing panorama  of  cloud,  wind,  and  sunlight, 
and  troops  of  wandering  wild-fowl.  The 
shade  of  a  cloud  cast  on  the  sun  may  etch  a 
silhouette  of  Titanic  boldness  for  a  fleeting 
moment;  and  then  the  sunlight  reappears,  to 
fall  in  the  space  below,  a  golden  cataract 
that  floods  the  shining  marshes.  The  heights 
where  the  blue  deepens  overhead  seem  arched 
against  the  rafters  of  heaven.  Below  the 
depths  are  boundless.  The  whistling  call  of 
a  flock  of  plover  comes  warningly,  their  white 
breasts  flash  as  they  wheel  solidly  past,  they 
fade  quickly  over  a  slope,  and  the  silence  is 
accentuated. 

8 


THE    MARSHES   IN   APRIL 

Perhaps  it  may  be  the  dry  sedges  of  yester- 
year, overtopped  with  the  living  green  of 
fresher  herbage.  Maybe  it  is  the  flutelike, 
plaintive  whistle  of  the  greater  yellow-leg 
plover.  Or  it  might  be  that  it  is  the  change 
from  sun  to  shade,  from  shadow  back  to  sun- 
shine, that  steeps  the  marshes  in  such  a  tide 
of  passionate  regret.  At  least,  the  touch  is 
there.  And  lying  on  one  of  the  tumbled 
heaps  of  forgotten  grass,  with  the  sigh  of 
late  afternoon  winds  through  the  yellowing 
cane,  an  autumn  wraith  seems  moving  across 
the  dusky  waters.  Old  loves,  old  days,  old 
tendernesses  come  back  to  haunt  you,  and  an 
echo  floats  wistfully  down  the  sweet  spring 
air. 

"Oh!  death  in  life,  the  days  that  are  no  more." 


PLOVER   SHOOTING 

WHEN  the  spring  days  begin  to 
send  scattering  showers  over 
prairies,  marshes,  and  rivers,  the 
plover  come  in  from  the  southern  states,  and 
even  from  South  America.  They  have  win- 
tered in  the  south  by  sea-shore  and  marsh,  by 
lake  and  river,  and  with  the  migratory  in- 
stinct of  their  kind,  have  flocked  north  at  the 
approach  of  warmer  weather.  Almost  at  the 
breaking  up  of  winter  the  kildee,  or  ring- 
necked  plover,  has  come.  He  is  the  advance 
guard  of  an  army  of  different  species  of 
plover  which  soon  follow. 

The  kildees,  or  kildeer  plover,  so  called 
from  its  two-syllabled  cry,  are  small  birds, 
grayish  brown  on  the  back  with  a  pure  white 
breast,  and  with  two  black  collars  encircling 
the  neck.  They  are  the  most  restless  of  all 
the  plover  tribe,  and  often  move  about  un- 
easily when  in  the  fields,  or  along  the  edges 
10 


PLOVER   SHOOTING 


of  streams  and  ponds.  The  golden  plover, 
called  also  the  yellow  or  green  plover,  come 
in  the  spring  and  autumn  in  large  flocks. 
They  fly  swiftly,  and  mass  close  together, 
over  stretches  of  burned  prairie,  meadows, 
and  newly  ploughed  ground,  and  are  the  most 
eagerly  sought  after  of  all  the  plover  kind. 
A  golden  plover  is  a  compactly  built  and 
hardy  bird,  about  seven  inches  long  and 
weighing  from  six  to  seven  ounces.  The 
back  is  black,  spotted  with  white  and  span- 
gled with  golden  specks.  Their  call  is  short 
and  musical.  They  are  not  easily  approached 
on  foot,  but  are  not  afraid  of  a  buggy  or 
wagon,  and  many  are  killed  by  driving  up 
on  them  with  a  horse  that  is  used  to  guns, 
and  shooting  them  as  they  rise.  One  of  the 
best  ways  to  hunt  them  is  to  put  out  "  stools," 
as  they  are  called,  or  wooden  decoys,  and 
shoot  from  a  rough  "  blind."  These  decoys 
are  painted  to  resemble  golden  plover,  and 
the  legs  are  represented  by  a  single  peg, 
which  may  be  stuck  into  the  ground  so  as  to 
keep  the  body  upright.  If  a  "  flight,"  as  it 
is  called,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  a  suc- 
cession of  flocks  of  the  birds,  fly  over  the 
II 


OUTDOORS 


country,  the  hunter  will  find  that  a  pit  dug 
in  the  ground  to  hide  in  will  give  him  the 
best  concealment. 

A  good-sized  flock  of  "  decoys  "  or  stools 
should  be  used.  With  such  an  array  of  "  de- 
coys "  the  plover  will  turn  in,  where  the 
ground  is  good  feeding-ground,  and  good 
shooting  can  be  had  right  along  when  the 
"  flight  "  is  on.  If  a  pit  cannot  be  dug,  there 
should  be  a  slight  blind  of  grass,  reeds,  corn- 
stalks, or  even  some  loose  branches  thrust 
into  the  ground,  to  conceal  the  hunter's  fig- 
ure. Care  should  be  taken  to  place  the  "  de- 
coys "  or  stools  between  or  along  lakes  or 
marshes,  if  possible,  and  in  localities  where 
plover  would  come  to  feed,  such  as  freshly 
burned  prairies,  pastures,  ploughed  land,  and 
meadows  where  there  is  wet,  bare  ground. 
There  is,  of  course,  more  or  less  luck  in 
selecting  a  place  to  set  up  the  "  stools,"  but 
if  you  notice  after  a  while  that  the  birds  are 
flying  across  other  fields,  it  is  an  easy  matter 
to  shift  the  "  stools "  and  build  another 
"blind." 

Sometimes  a  flock  of  sand-snipes,  or,  tech- 
nically speaking,  pectoral  sand-pipers,  will 

12 


PLOVER    SHOOTING 


dash  in  over  the  "  stools  "  for  a  moment  and 
then  wheel  away.  And  these  may  circle  after 
a  shot  and  return  to  give  the  sportsman  an- 
other shot.  These  sand-pipers,  called  also 
grass  plover,  are  colored  something  like  a 
jack-snipe,  although  lighter  in  hue,  but  have 
no  cross  bars  on  the  tail  like  the  jack-snipe, 
and  their  bills  are  short.  They  live  like  the 
jack-snipe,  chiefly  by  suction,  drawing  up  ani- 
malculae  from  the  wet  ground  through  their 
bills,  by  means  of  their  sensitive  tongues;  and 
they  grow  to  be  very  fat.  I  have  seen  them 
break  open  and  split  when  falling  from  a 
height  of  sixty  or  seventy  yards,  on  account 
of  the  accumulation  of  fat  about  the  breasts 
and  shoulders.  They  are  delicious  eating, 
but  are  not  nearly  so  handsome  a  bird  as  the 
golden  plover.  Like  the  golden  plover,  they 
are  swift  of  wing  and  irregular  of  flight. 

When  the  "  stools "  are  set  out  near  a 
pond  or  marsh  the  hunter  is  likely,  if  well 
concealed,  to  get  a  shot  at  the  greater  or 
lesser  yellow-legged  plover.  The  larger  of 
these  is  a  bird  almost  as  big  as  a  good-sized 
spring  chicken.  They  come  in  flocks  of  from 
four  to  a  dozen  or  more,  and  their  peculiarly 

13 


OUTDOORS 


melancholy,  flutelike  call  sounds  weirdly  in 
the  loneliness  of  marsh  or  prairie.  The  lesser 
yellow-legs  are  in  larger  flocks,  usually,  and 
are  a  much  smaller  bird,  although  heavier 
than  the  golden  plover  or  the  sand-snipe. 

In  plover  shooting  innumerable  shots  of 
various  kinds  come  to  the  sportsman. 
Straight-away  shots,  right  and  left  quarter- 
ers,  rising  quarterers,  right  and  left  rising 
side  shots,  cross  shots  from  either  side,  over- 
head shots,  and  twisters  are  among  these.  In 
all  shots  excepting  the  plain  and  twisting 
straight-aways  it  is  necessary  to  hold  ahead 
of  the  bird,  keeping  the  gun  moving  at  the 
same  time.  How  far  to  hold  ahead  depends 
on  divers  contingencies.  The  distance  the 
bird  is  from  the  shooter,  the  speed  at  which 
the  bird  is  flying,  and  the  wind,  if  any  is 
blowing,  all  enter  into  the  calculation.  And 
it  has  got  to  be  a  "  lightning  calculation," 
too.  A  man  who  is  a  good  duck  or  jack- 
snipe  shot  can  bring  down  plover  easily 
enough,  even  on  windy  days.  But  a  man 
must  be  born  with  the  knack  or  he  will  never 
become  a  "  crackerjack." 

A  good  retriever  is  an  excellent  comrade 


PLOVER    SHOOTING 


to  take  along.  He  is  companionable,  and  he 
can  find  a  dead  bird  in  one-tenth  of  the  time 
that  a  man  can ;  and  will  also  find  birds  which 
a  man  would  otherwise  lose.  A  gun  of  almost 
any  ordinary  good  make  will  answer  very  well 
for  this  class  of  shooting.  It  should  be  a 
twelve  or  sixteen  gauge,  with  the  right-hand 
barrel  cylinder  bored  and  the  left-hand  barrel 
modified  choke.  A  six-and-a-half  or  seven- 
pound  gun  is  amply  heavy.  Number  eight 
shot  are  the  best  size,  and  smokeless  powder 
is  always  an  advantage.  The  smokeless  pow- 
der acts  more  quickly,  requires  less  holding 
ahead  of  the  bird,  and  leaves  the  air  unclouded 
for  the  hunter  to  use  his  second  barrel. 

In  tramping  for  plover  the  sportsman  will 
usually  find  many  grass  plover,  or  sand-snipe, 
some  of  the  spotted  sand-pipers,  a  "  tip-up  " 
or  tilting  sand-piper  occasionally,  kildees  on 
the  drier  spots.  In  the  pastures  and  meadows 
he  may  run  across  a  pair  of  true  Bartramian 
sand-pipers,  called  also  upland,  pasture,  field, 
grass,  and  prairie  plover.  Their  tremulous, 
fluttering  flight  as  they  rise  from  the  ground 
is  peculiarly  their  own,  and  their  rippling 
whistle  when  they  are  high  in  the  air  is  one 
15 


OUTDOORS 


of  nature's  most  melodious  sounds.  They 
are  the  only  members  of  the  sand-piper  family 
that  light  upon  the  fences  around  a  field,  and 
when  they  do  this  they  will  often  spread  their 
long  and  rather  narrow  wings,  and  give  their 
quavering  and  sweet  cry  in  a  long-drawn-out 
ripple.  These  birds  are  the  most  richly 
plumaged  of  all  the  sand-piper  family,  with 
soft,  golden-yellow  feathers  bronzing  into 
brown  and  tufts  of  grey  under  the  wings. 
And  at  rare  times  Wilson's  phalarope  is 
found,  daintiest  and  most  aristocratic  of  all 
the  waders,  the  female  being  the  larger  and 
handsomer  of  the  two.  Never  shoot  more 
than  a  pair  of  phalaropes.  They  are  not  to 
be  eaten,  but  should  be  mounted  by  a  skilful 
taxidermist. 

The  best  place  for  sand-snipe  is  found  near 
the  big  marshes  and  around  the  adjoining 
wet  country.  They  will  be  found  feeding  in 
the  short  grass  in  low  places,  and  in  flocks 
of  from  seven  or  eight  to  fifteen,  and  even 
one  hundred  or  more  birds.  A  sportsman  in 
tramping  around  good  plover  country  will 
often  get  shots  at  passing  flocks  and  at  single 
birds,  especially  if  there  are  other  hunters  in 
16 


PLOVER    SHOOTING 


the  vicinity  who  are  keeping  the  plover  on 
the  move. 

Plover  shooting  is  nearly  all  spring  shoot- 
ing, although  good  golden-plover  shooting  is 
possible  in  the  fall.  It  takes  a  man  out  on 
the  marshes  and  prairies,  and  gives  him  exer- 
cise and  sunshine.  As  to  clothing,  the  regu- 
lation brown  duck,  grass-colored,  is  the  best. 
Do  not  wear  rubber  boots.  Wear  an  old  pair 
of  stout  shoes,  together  with  a  pair  of  heavy 
woollen  stockings,  and  clamp  your  shoes  and 
your  trousers  with  a  thick  pair  of  leather  or 
duck  leggings,  and  the  combination  is  almost 
water-proof.  And  at  any  rate  it  will  not  be 
weighty.  When  you  get  back  to  your  start- 
ing-place, you  should  have  dry  shoes  and 
stockings  for  an  immediate  change.  A  good, 
hard  rub-down  for  ten  minutes  before  you 
make  the  change,  and  you  will  not  catch  cold 
or  suffer  any  ill  effects.  But  rubber  boots 
may  lame  you  for  weeks. 

There  is  a  peculiar  delight  in  lying  on  a 
stretch  of  uncultivated  prairie  or  marsh  land 
and  watching  for  plover.  The  absence  of 
trees  in  such  a  place  gives  the  idea  and  effect 
of  a  sea.  The  sky  comes  down  to  the  horizon 


OUTDOORS 


as  blue  as  a  violet,  and  the  sense  of  utter  re- 
moteness from  the  towns  is  like  wine  on  the 
lips.  The  fresh  winds  blow,  and  occasionally 
clouds  float  past.  Sometimes  a  prairie-hawk 
will  fly  across,  or  a  lone  crow;  and  a  belated 
duck  may  be  seen  at  times  with  his  easy, 
graceful  flight,  high  in  air.  It  is  usually  very 
still.  The  faint  report  of  a  shot-gun  is  heard 
infrequently,  and  the  rustle  of  the  grass 
often.  The  air  shimmers,  and  the  day  drifts 
slowly  and  royally  down  the  pathway  of  the 
sun.  And  in  the  blue-and-white  vaults  be- 
tween earth  and  sky  will  come  now  and  then 
a  gleam  of  white  breasts  and  swift-flying 
wings;  a  faint,  sharp  "  tweet,  tweet" — a 
parting,  fading  glimpse  of 

"  Deep-toned  plovers  gray,  wild-whistling  o'er  the  hill." 


18 


THE   MELANCHOLY 
CRANE 

THE  melancholy  crane  lived  in  a 
marsh  which  stretched  away  to  the 
river  on  the  west  of  a  wide  ex- 
panse of  wet  prairie.  He  was  a  heron,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  but  the  hunters  and  people 
who  frequented  those  waste  places  called  him 
a  crane,  and  he  was  entirely  too  disconsolate 
to  deny  it.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  and  he 
lived  on  frogs  and  fish  and  snails,  and  any- 
thing else  in  the  creeping  and  swimming  line 
that  came  to  his  notice.  His  plumage  was 
of  a  greenish  blue,  and  his  wings  were  broad 
and  capable  of  carrying  his  ungainly  form 
easily  over  the  marshes. 

His  favorite  haunt  was  a  spot  in  the  marsh 
where  seldom,  if  ever,  the  foot  of  the  hunter 
penetrated,  and  where  the  spirit  of  solitude 
dreamed  and  slept  through  the  long,  golden 
days  of  early  September.  There  the  winds 
came  creeping  past  the  tall  grasses  and  ruf- 
19 


OUTDOORS 


fling  the  amber  waters  of  the  silent  pools. 
Soft  winds  these  sometimes  were,  hardly  dar- 
ing to  breathe  lest  the  sound  might  disturb 
the  lone  bird  poised  in  his  quaint  desolation, 
a  living  scarecrow  of  the  wilderness.  And 
then  there  were  also  the  rude  winds,  rushing 
by  with  their  wake  of  trailing  black  clouds, 
and  roaring  through  narrow  lanes  where  the 
furrows  of  their  comrades  had  been  ploughed 
to  make  them  an  exit,  and  then  away  to  the 
north,  bending  the  trees  beyond  and  dying 
behind  the  hills. 

These  ruffling  gusts  annoyed  the  melan- 
choly fowl.  At  the  sound  of  the  high  winds 
he  would  shake  his  feathers  with  a  gesture  of 
disapproval,  curve  his  snaky  neck  down,  and 
stand  stolidly  waiting  for  the  storm  to  break. 
And  when  the  rain  came  in  slanting  gusts 
and  darkness  fell,  and  all  the  sky  was  blotted 
out,  as  with  a  giant  hand,  how  dismal  it  was 
for  him  there  in  the  wastes!  How  different 
from  the  luxury  enjoyed  by  the  canary  in  a 
lady's  boudoir !  And  when  the  storm  passed, 
and  the  sun  shone  again,  it  was  a  distressing- 
looking  object  that  it  beamed  upon  in  the 
shape  of  the  melancholy  crane. 
20 


THE    MELANCHOLY    CRANE 

And  even  when  days  were  rich  with  sun- 
shine and  breezes  flowed  over  the  lake  like 
sifted  swansdown,  and  haze  stood  over  the 
far-off  hills  in  a  purple  veil  of  glory — even 
then  there  was  a  withering  chill  in  the  heart 
of  the  melancholy  crane.  For  what  was  to 
him  the  rose  of  the  dying  sunset  beneath  a 
dazzling  west,  the  very  strength  and  heart 
of  the  passing  day  in  one  lingering  farewell? 
What  mattered  the  gray  blossoms  of  dawn 
falling  from  the  east  when  daylight  shook 
her  white  and  fleecy  robes  of  morning  down 
to  the  horizon  line  and  stepped  out  to  waken 
a  sleeping  world?  All  color  and  change  were 
but  the  rounds  of  a  weary  time,  a  senseless 
repetition  of  light  and  shade.  For,  mark 
you,  a  ruthless  hunter  had  shot  his  awkward 
but  faithful  mate,  and  thus  nevermore  was 
there  peace  in  the  breast  of  the  melancholy 
crane. 

How  like  a  slanting  shadow  he  appeared 
as  he  drifted  across  the  marshes.  Just  such  a 
shadow  as  a  vagrant  cloud  will  cast  on  bend- 
ing wheat,  or  on  the  billowy  sweep  of  prairie- 
grasses  when  the  sun  flashes  from  shade  to 
brilliance,  and  back  again  to  shadow  —  so 
21 


OUTDOORS 


swung  he  from  the  silences  of  the  wide  marsh, 
as  a  leaf  might  be  tossed  out  on  unreturning 
winds  to  fall  wherever  fate  might  list,  and 
none  the  wiser.  Morning  and  evening  the 
blackbirds  flew  over  with  noisy  chatter,  and 
a  kingfisher  gossiped  along  the  shores  of  the 
lake  or  sat  sculpturesquely  on  dead  limbs  of 
a  lightning-blasted  tree.  The  sooty  terns, 
wavering  of  flight  and  querulous  of  cry, 
wandered  by  and  left  him  standing  in  severe 
contemplation.  And  in  the  spring  and  fall 
the  wild-ducks,  with  their  sharp-cut  lines  and 
curves  of  aerial  travel,  darted  on  past  him 
and  disappeared  beyond  the  wild-rice  and 
willows. 

Down  there  in  that  nook  of  the  swamp, 
where  tadpoles  swam  and  the  black  water- 
bugs  wove  shining  jet  tracery  over  the  pools, 
and  where  gaudy  dragon-flies  hovered,  was 
the  last  retreat  of  the  melancholy  crane. 
For  there  was  at  last  the  spot  where  the  sun 
came  least  obtrusively,  and  where  the  hush 
seemed  more  sacred,  and  where  all  nature 
lay  wrapped  in  shadowy  garments  of  abso- 
lute repose.  Hardly  the  white  water-lilies, 
snowy  hearts  in  green  setting,  with  golden- 

22 


THE    MELANCHOLY    CRANE 

petalled  centres,  stirred  under  the  wanton 
kisses  of  the  bold  winds.  Hardly  the 
grave  moccasin  moved  from  the  blackened 
log  where  he  lay,  as  the  old  blue  crane 
dropped  down  to  his  accustomed  place. 
Silence  was  there,  and  wildness.  Nothing 
more. 

But  there  came  a  day  when  all  this  was 
changed.  A  boat  crept  up  into  the  reeds, 
and  as  the  bird,  disturbed  by  the  rustle  of  a 
skiff,  sprang  up  and  out  from  his  hiding- 
place  of  tall  marsh-grass,  a  report  sounded, 
and  the  stricken  crane  fell  to  the  marsh.  And 
the  hand  of  a  hunter  drew  him  to  the  boat, 
and  the  mist  from  the  marsh  rose  and  met 
the  sun  and  faded  away.  And  there  was  a 
long  interval,  and  then  a  miracle  of  skill  and 
science,  and  again  the  great  bird  stood  erect 
in  a  glass  case,  and  beside  him  was  his  lost 
mate.  For  the  same  hunter  had  killed  both, 
and  his  hand  had  been  the  one  which  had  set 
them  in  the  glass  case,  and  so  even  in  death 
they  had  not  been  separated.  And  many 
people  came  to  see  them,  and  there  was  a 
learned  professor  who  told  of  their  habits 
and  their  life  as  birds,  much  of  which  he  had 

23 


OUTDOORS 


learned  from  books,  and  little  of  which  had 
any  breath  of  the  lone,  gray  marsh  about  it. 
And  many  curious  and  even  scornful  eyes 
were  cast  upon  the  two  ungainly  birds  stand- 
ing there. 

But  out  on  the  wide  stretch  of  marsh-grass 
there  was  a  something  stiller  than  silence  in 
the  spot  where  the  crane  had  fallen.  For  to 
satisfy  a  base  curiosity,  a  harmless  bird  had 
been  slain,  and  there  was  a  loss  to  the  pict- 
uresqueness  and  life  of  the  lonely  marsh, 
and  no  recompense  was  given.  No  longer 
would  his  figure  float  across  in  hazy  flight  as 
the  sun  sank  in  the  west,  and  in  vain  would 
the  friendly  winds  seek  him  in  the  place 
where  he  had  found  haven. 

Wind,  sun,  and  rain;  the  flight  of  birds 
overhead  and  the  whirl  of  dry  leaves  from 
November-harassed  trees;  the  waving  grasses 
and  the  shadows— all  now  was  alone  and  un- 
heeded, excepting  by  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
changing  seasons.  The  blackbirds  might  pass 
over  and  the  kingfisher  scold  along  the  reedy 
shore;  the  dusky  wings  of  the  wandering  tern 
might  tack  and  beat  against  delaying  winds, 
and  the  grim  crow  paint  ebon  lines  in  far 
24 


THE    MELANCHOLY    CRANE 

blue  vaults  above,  but  nevermore  could  come 
to  the  marsh  and  lake  as  a  part  of  its  picture, 
a  shred  of  its  loneliness,  and  the  very  spirit 
and  sprite  of  its  haunted  pools — the  form  of 
the  melancholy  crane. 


FISHING   FOR   BIG-MOUTH 
BASS 

BASS  fishing,  whether  in  river  or  lake, 
has  more  devotees  than  any  other 
piscatorial  sport  in  America.  There 
are  very  many  lovers  of  trout-fishing,  and  to 
some  the  lusty  muskallunge  is  the  king  of 
fish,  but  north  and  south,  and  from  the  Mis- 
sissippi to  the  Atlantic  coast,  the  black  bass 
is  deservedly  the  favorite.  He  is  known  by 
many  names  in  different  localities.  He  mas- 
querades under  various  titles,  such  as  the 
Oswego  bass,  jumping  bass,  grass  bass,  chin- 
quapin perch,  tiger  bass,  and  green  bass,  and 
in  the  south  he  is  called  the  green  trout. 

The  big-mouth  bass  is  the  most  democratic 
of  fishes  as  to  food,  but  he  associates  only 
with  his  kind  when  it  comes  to  society.  He 
will  be  found  with  his  brother,  the  small- 
mouth,  the  wall-eyed  pike  or  pike  perch,  the 
pickerel  and  the  muskallunge  in  the  lakes  and 
rivers,  but  he  does  not  fraternize  closely  with 
any  except  the  bass  family.  Bass  fishing  is 
26 


FISHING    FOR    BIG-MOUTH    BASS 

carried  on  to  an  extent  hardly  to  be  esti- 
mated. And,  notwithstanding  the  incessant 
fishing,  the  hardy  bass  manages  to  thrive  and 
keep  its  numbers  up  to  an  average  from  year 
to  year. 

The  big-mouth  bass  will  strike  at  a  frog, 
a  metal  spoon,  a  minnow,  small  perch,  or  a 
shiner,  the  different  bass  flies,  and,  sad  to 
say,  at  a  piece  of  pork  rind  cut  in  a  crudely 
shaped  imitation  of  a  minnow.  The  "  pork- 
rind  "  fishermen  often  get  large  strings.  The 
big-mouth  will  also  take  crawfish,  angle- 
worms, a  live  mouse,  or  a  piece  of  perch 
meat.  Early  in  the  season  he  will  "  strike  " 
at  the  "  spoon/'  or  spoon-hook,  and  many 
are  caught  in  that  way.  It  is  a  good,  sure 
way  to  get  fish  for  the  pan,  but  the  "  bait- 
casters  "  despise  it. 

Fishing  with  a  spoon  may  be  by  "  troll- 
ing "  or  trailing  a  "  thumb-nail  "  spoon  on 
the  water  some  distance  from  the  boat,  or  it 
may  be  by  "  casting  "  the  spoon  and  dragging 
it  in  circles  and  lines,  or  by  letting  it  sink  and 
reeling  it  up  after  it  has  gone  down  a  few 
yards  under  water.  It  requires  skill  to  land 
a  three-pound  fish  with  one  of  these  toys, 
27 


OUTDOORS 


as  the  hooks  are  very  small  and  give  the  bass 
a  chance  to  fight  and  to  break  hooks.  With 
the  large  "  spoons  "  the  fish  have  little  chance 
to  escape. 

Bait-casting,  using  the  frog  or  live  min- 
now, the  shiner  or  small  perch,  is  justly 
claimed  to  be  a  science  by  its  advocates.  It 
requires  a  deftness  of  wrist  movement,  an 
eye  for  distance,  accuracy  in  placing  the  bait, 
lightness  in  dropping  it,  and  various  other 
accomplishments,  besides  a  thorough  knowl- 
edge of  the  habits  of  the  fish  and  of  what  is 
"  fishable  "  water.  If  the  fisherman  intends 
to  use  minnows  for  casting,  he  should  by  all 
means,  if  possible,  get  his  bait  at  the  lake 
or  river  where  he  intends  to  fish.  Minnows 
are  very  fragile  bait,  easily  killed,  and  prac- 
tically gone  at  the  first  "  strike."  Some  ex- 
perts do  great  work  with  a  dead  minnow, 
but  they  are  the  exceptions  among  the  bait- 
casters,  and  a  live  minnow  is  the  best  bait. 

A  frog,  when  cast,  can  be  brought  back  to 
the  boat  with  an  enticing  ripple,  his  legs 
stretched  out  as  though  he  was  swimming 
through  the  water,  and  he  presents  a  most 
alluring  spectacle  to  hungry  bass.  The  surg- 
28 


FISHING    FOR    BIG-MOUTH    BASS 

ing  rush  of  a  big-mouth  at  such  a  moment, 
when  he  churns  the  water  over  the  frog  and 
goes  down  with  the  bait  in  his  jaws,  is  worth 
travelling  a  long  way  to  see.  The  bass  seizes 
the  frog  crosswise  in  his  jaws  and  goes  to 
the  bottom  with  him.  There  he  holds  him 
for  a  few  seconds  and  then,  shifting  his  prey, 
swallows  him. 

Then  he  moves  away,  feeling  very  com- 
fortable. And  as  he  starts,  the  line,  which, 
after  the  first  rush  has  slackened,  begins  to 
straighten  out  again.  And  then  is  the  time 
for  you  to  "  strike."  A  sharp  twist  of  the 
wrist  and  your  bass  is  hooked.  And  then 
comes  trouble.  It  comes  right  away,  and 
in  chunks.  A  three-pound  big-mouth  is  a 
fighter,  although  not  so  fierce  a  gladiator  as 
the  "  small-mouth  "  bass.  He  may  dive  to 
the  bottom  and  sulk  awhile.  He  is  sure  to 
cut  the  pace  in  a  number  of  swift  curves  and 
turns,  and  he  may  break  your  leader  in 
one  of  those  mad  plunges.  He  also  has  a 
gentle  habit  of  making  back  for  the  boat  and 
knocking  the  hook  loose  by  switching  the  line 
across  the  bottom  of  the  craft;  or  by  tangling 
the  line  with  an  oar  and  flopping  off. 
29 


OUTDOORS 


If  he  can  get  the  line  wound  around  a 
weed  or  a  bulrush  or  a  tuft  of  grass,  away 
he  goes.  In  lakes  where  there  is  a  growth  of 
floating  moss,  as  in  many  of  the  lakes,  he 
often  twists  up  in  bunches  of  this  and  man- 
ages to  wriggle  from  the  hook.  His  only 
ambition  after  being  hooked  is  to  get  rid  of 
the  troublesome  barb,  and  his  efforts  are  de- 
termined and  vigorous  in  the  extreme.  Not 
an  inch  of  slack  may  be  given  him.  And  he 
cannot  be  lifted  into  the  boat  with  proper 
tackle,  but  must  be  "  played  "  until  he  can  be 
drawn  to  the  landing-net.  The  rod  must  be 
able  to  stand  the  strain;  there  must  be  no 
knots  in  the  line,  and  if  the  reel  slips  or  acts 
cranky  it  means  good-by  to  the  bass.  So, 
from  the  moment  a  big-mouth  first  u  strikes  " 
until  he  is  tumbling  around  in  the  boat,  it  is 
one  round  of  excitement  and  uncertainty. 

One  test  of  the  skill  of  the  bait-caster 
is  to  be  able  to  plump  a  frog  down  in  the 
small  pockets  of  open  water  around  floating 
lily-pads  and  near  the  bulrush  beds  close  in 
shore.  Big-mouth  bass  have  quite  a  fashion 
of  lurking  in  these  spots,  and  a  frog  cast 
skilfully  into  such  a  hole  very  often  brings 
30 


FISHING    FOR    BIG-MOUTH    BASS 

a  "  strike."  The  bait  should  be  dropped 
lightly,  so  as  to  produce  a  liquid  and  alluring 
"  plunk  "  in  the  water. 

This  mellow  sound  rouses  all  the  ferocity 
of  a  bass,  and  he  will  take  the  frog  with  a 
"  kerchug  "  of  the  water  around  where  it  lit 
and  a  triumphant  sweep  of  his  broad  tail.  In 
these  little  pockets  the  water  growth  of  sub- 
merged weeds  and  grass  makes  landing  the 
fish  a  difficult  and  delicate  task.  Often  a 
bass  gets  the  line  tangled  in  the  weeds  or 
rushes,  and  it  is  necessary  to  row  the  boat  to 
where  the  fish  is  stuck  and  slip  the  landing- 
net  under  the  bass,  weeds,  moss,  and  all,  so 
as  to  save  the  fish. 

A  man  fishing  with  a  long  cane  pole,  with- 
out a  reel,  can  pop  a  frog  into  these  lairs 
and  snake,  a  bass  out  by  main  strength  and 
awkwardness.  It  is  not  scientific  fishing,  but 
simply  brute  force.  The  fact  is  that  a  good 
bait-caster,  with  the  proper  rod  and  appli- 
ances, can  get  bass  where  the  cane-pole  fisher- 
man cannot  get  them.  He  can  cast  farther 
from  the  boat,  and  the  bass,  which  is  a  shy 
fish  and  a  suspicious  one,  has  less  opportunity 
for  seeing  the  boat  or  hearing  the  oars  of  the 

31 


OUTDOORS 


boatman.  If  the  frog  is  a  large  one,  more 
time  should  be  given  the  bass  to  swallow  it, 
and  the  fisherman  should  never  "strike"  to 
hook  a  bass  when  the  fish  first  takes  the  frog. 

A  good  boatman  is  a  prime  requisite  in 
bait-casting.  Sometimes  a  man  can  go  out 
alone  and  drift  or  anchor  his  boat  and  cast 
and  get  bass,  but  this  is  an  unsatisfactory 
way.  It  gives  only  a  limited  space  to  work 
in.  A  good  oarsman  responds  to  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  situation,  watches  the  rushes  of  the 
fish  and  swings  the  boat,  tacks  it  or  rows 
ahead,  as  the  nature  of  the  case  demands. 

A  rod  with  a  stiffer  tip  is  used  in  casting 
than  in  still  fishing,  and  extra  tips  should  al- 
ways be  carried.  Lancewood  rods,  split  bam- 
boo, bethabara,  and  even  steel  rods  are  used 
by  some  of  the  experts.  A  good  green-heart 
or  lancewood  casting-rod  is  very  serviceable. 
The  hooks  should  be  regulation  bass  hooks, 
with  either  single-  or  double-gut  leaders. 
Lines  may  be  of  linen,  braided  oil-silk,  raw 
silk,  or  enamelled  water-proof  silk.  A  round 
braided  silk  line  gives  the  best  results.  A 
tackle-box  and  a  minnow-pail  are  also  re- 
quired. It  is  as  well  to  take  a  frying-pan 
32 


FISHING    FOR    BIG-MOUTH    BASS 

along  and  cook  a  couple  of  the  fish  on  shore 
to  eat  with  the  lunch  you  bring  out.  A  big- 
mouth  fried  an  hour  after  leaving  the  water 
is  delicious  eating. 

Even  in  July  and  later,  the  big-mouth  will 
rise  to  a  frog  in  the  morning  and  evening, 
and  a  light  wind  over  the  water  is  often  ad- 
vantageous. But  all  signs  fail  occasionally, 
and  I  have  caught  some  fine,  lusty  bass  in 
mid-August,  at  the  noon  hour,  casting  with  a 
frog  in  water  unruffled  by  a  single  dimple  of 
the  breeze. 


33 


FLIGHT  OF  COMMON 
BIRDS 

IN  walking  through  the  woods  or  fields, 
by  the  shores  of  a  lake,  or  along  the 
river-banks,  there  is  apparent  always 
a  woven  tissue  of  bird  flight.  There  are 
few  persons  who  have  noted  the  distinctive 
peculiarities  of  the  more  common  birds,  so  as 
to  be  able  to  tell  one  from  the  other  at  long 
distances.  Observation  and  experience  will 
give  one  the  power  to  read  the  channels  and 
winding  aisles  of  light  and  air  as  a  book's 
pages  may  be  scanned,  and  in  this  sym- 
pathetic perceptiveness  the  veil  of  Isis  lifts, 
be  it  ever  so  little,  and  nature's  secrets  are 
mistily  revealed  to  the  gazer.  It  is  not  to  be 
thought  of  as  study,  for  that  presupposes  the 
judging,  dissecting,  photographing,  number- 
ing, and  theorizing  which  kills  the  freshness 
out  of  such  things. 

Bird  flight  is  the  warp  and  woof  of  the 
seasons,  spun  in  the  wind's  looms,  visible  as 
it  passes,  yet  fading  as  it  is  seen.    No  painter 
34 


FLIGHT    OF    COMMON    BIRDS 

has  limned  its  motion,  nor  have  the  poets 
caught  its  myriad  complexities.  In  morning's 
dew-sprinkled  paths,  over  the  noon's  broad 
gates,  and  when  twilight  weaves  the  sombre 
threads  that  darken  toward  the  west,  the 
birds  fly  past,  each  with  its  own  individual 
sweep  of  wing,  each  distinct  in  its  place, 
etched  dark  against  the  timber  -  lines,  or 
tipped  and  gilded  by  the  trailing  streamers 
of  the  sun.  The  swallow,  the  dove,  the  yel- 
low-hammer, humming-bird,  robin,  blackbird, 
blue  -  jay,  nighthawk,  wild  canary,  shrike, 
meadow-lark,  bat,  and  many  more.  And  the 
average  man  looks  and  sees — nothing — as  he 
did  in  Wordsworth's  day: 

"  A  primrose  by  the  river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 

The  swallow's  flight  I  class  as  most  gypsy- 
like,  roving  and  revelling  in  curves;  most 
buoyant,  least  hinting  of  exertion,  and  grace- 
ful as  a  vine.  Around  the  lakes,  over  the 
river-currents,  by  meadow  and  slope  the  swal- 
low flies.  The  purple  martin,  or  house- 
swallow,  also  known  as  barn-swallow,  is  one 
35 


OUTDOORS 


of  the  most  common  of  the  family.  He  often 
chatters  to  himself  as  he  wings  his  way  over 
a  barn-yard,  and  his  long,  sweeping  curves 
are  a  beautiful  example  of  ^impossibilities  of 
aerial  motion.  One  habit  of  the  swallows  is 
to  dip  to  ponds  or  running  water  as  they  pass 
above  it,  and  this  has  suggested  to  one  writer 
the  figure: 

"  Short,  swallow-flights  of  song  that  dip 
Their  wings  in  tears  and  then  away." 

The  chimney-swallow,  which  is  really  a 
swift,  is  usually  abroad  when  the  swallows 
are  circling  about  the  roofs,  and  its  erratic, 
scallopy  movements  and  its  shrill  twittering 
as  it  cuts  through  the  air  make  it  easily 
known  from  the  true  swallows.  The  perfec- 
tion of  swallow  flight  is  found  when  the  birds 
are  flying  around  some  bit  of  meadow-land 
along  a  river  where  small  ponds  are  scat- 
tered about.  When  sunshine  and  shadow 
blend  in  such  places,  and  the  birds  dip  to  the 
water  and  away,  with  their  glossy  breasts 
dripping,  each  curve  of  their  wings  is  a  lyric, 
written  on  impalpable  air,  the  subtle  poetry 
of  wind  and  sun. 

36 


FLIGHT   OF   COMMON    BIRDS 

I  sing  you  a  song  of  a  swallow — 
With  a  purple  breast  and  buoyant  wings, 
Curving  down  where  the  south  wind  springs 
From  out  of  a  grassy  hollow. 

The  turtle-dove's  course  through  the  air  is 
almost  noiseless,  swift,  sustained,  vigorous, 
and  suggestive  of  power.  His  feathers  lie 
closely  to  his  body,  and  his  wings  are  strong 
and  capable  of  carrying  him  at  a  high  rate 
of  speed.  On  rising  from  the  ground,  be- 
fore getting  under  full  headway,  his  wings 
beat  in  a  nervous  flappy  way,  and  when  set- 
tling to  a  perch  there  is  a  fluttering  of  both 
wings  and  tail  before  the  bird  quiets  down. 
But  when  fairly  launched  the  flight  of  the 
dove  is  very  striking.  It  seems  fairly  to 
pierce  the  air,  and  at  times  appears  to  be  a 
succession  of  long  drives  through  space,  the 
bird  shifting  its  direction  and  even  partly 
turning  its  body  with  the  utmost  ease  when  at 
top  speed.  They  go  a  great  deal  in  pairs  in 
the  summer-time,  but  as  autumn  comes  on 
they  will  be  found  in  the  cornfields  and  stub- 
bles in  flocks. 

With  the  yellow-hammer,  or,  more  prop- 
erly speaking,  the  golden  -  winged  wood- 
37 


OUTDOORS 


pecker  or  "  flicker,"  the  wing  movement  is 
practically  the  same  as  the  other  wood- 
peckers, the  members  of  the  sapsucker  family 
and  the  tiny  wild  canaries.  His  flight  is  a 
succession  of  billowy  curves,  as  a  wave  will 
slide  from  crest  to  base,  and  rise  from  base 
to  crest  again.  The  red-headed  woodpecker, 
the  downy  woodpecker,  the  "  quilt,"  the  log 
cock,  and  the  sapsuckers  all  have  this  see- 
saw motion  through  the  air.  But  I  should 
say  that  the  yellow-hammer's  flight  was  of 
longer  and  less  abrupt  curves,  and  that  his 
poise  was  more  graceful  and  not  so  jerky.  I 
can  tell  him  easily  from  the  other  woodpeck- 
ers at  any  reasonable  distance,  and  have  al- 
ways admired  his  swinging,  forceful  stroke 
of  wing. 

And  then  across  an  open  place,  between  the  serried  trees, 
High  up  in  sun-surrounded  space  a  golden  shadow  flees, 

In  curves  that  rise  and  curves  that  dip, 

As  graceful  as  a  curtseying  ship, 

With  measured  stroke  of  pinions  bright 

That  marks  the  flicker's  flight. 

The  humming-bird's  motions  are  two,  be- 
ing the  hover  and  the  dart.  See  him  poised 
above  a  flower.  His  wings  whirl  like  an 

38 


FLIGHT   OF   COMMON    BIRDS 

electric  fan,  and  his  brilliant  colors  gleam  in 
the  sunlight.  He  is  a  toy,  gemmed  with 
jewelled  green  and  gold,  radiantly  bright. 
Suddenly  he  has  slipped  from  sight,  as  a 
shining  dew-drop  might  glide  into  the  depths 
of  a  red-clover  blossom.  He  has  darted 
twenty  feet  as  swift  as  thought,  and  again  is 
poising,  in  a  kaleidoscopic  glitter,  above  a 
spray  of  honeysuckle.  The  humming-bird's 
movement  is  the  most  spritelike  of  all  the 
birds.  You  can  neither  hear  it  nor  trace  it, 
and  only  partially  divine  it  by  mere  sight.  It 
is  a  sudden  blossoming  of  wings  in  mid-air, 
a  ceasing,  a  reappearing,  and  then  a  void 
where  had  hung  beauty,  grace,  energy,  color, 
and  life. 

The  robin's  flight,  like  his  manner,  is  se- 
date and  unobtrusive.  It  is  a  succession  of 
flittings,  and  not  marked  by  any  particular 
individuality.  It  is  easily  distinguishable, 
however,  from  the  other  birds.  The  black- 
birds, red-winged,  crow-blackbird  or  purple 
grackle,  and  the  cow-blackbird  have  a  long, 
wavy  flight,  with  not  very  much  dip  in  the 
movement.  Their  habit  of  flying  in  flocks 
makes  the  flight  very  noticeable.  The  rudder- 

39 


OUTDOORS 


like  tail  of  the  crow-blackbird  seems  to  be 
used  by  him  to  steer  his  course  with.  Single 
blackbirds  have  a  fashion  of  flying  high,  and 
this  will  sometimes  aid  in  determining  what 
kind  of  a  bird  is  in  the  air. 

The  blue-jay  flies  on  a  more  level  course 
than  most  of  the  common  birds.  He  will 
start  on  a  line  and  keep  it,  and  his  bright 
blue  wings  beat  the  air  lightly  but  steadily 
as  he  passes  by,  neither  rising  nor  falling, 
but  keeping  the  even  tenor  of  his  way.  The 
shrike,  or  "  butcher-bird,"  has  a  somewhat 
similar  way  of  flying,  but  the  shrike  haunts 
the  hedges  and  the  open  field,  the  blue-jay 
the  woods.  And  even  with  this  difference  of 
environment,  the  shrike's  flight  is  smoother 
than  the  jay's.  He  reels  off  space  as  you 
might  unravel  an  old  yarn  mitten.  In  size 
he  is  almost  the  same  as  the  jay,  and  in  color 
of  a  subdued  gray  and  brownish  black.  But 
a  hunter  can  tell  which  is  which  when  both 
are  flying  from  the  same  hedge,  even  when 
it  is  too  cloudy  and  far  away  to  distinguish 
colors. 

The  meadow-lark  soars,  skims,  and  flut- 
ters. When  flushed  from  the  fields  he  rises 
40 


FLIGHT   OF   COMMON    BIRDS 

with  a  series  of  short,  fluttering  beats  of  the 
wing,  and  usually  settles  to  earth  after  flying 
fifty  or  one  hundred  yards.  At  times  he  will 
dart  away  almost  like  a  quail  and  curve 
sharply  to  left  or  right.  When  he  is  on  a 
fence-post  his  tail  will  bob  and  bob  as  a 
person  approaches,  and  when  he  flies  from 
such  a  perch  he  invariably  rises  with  short, 
jerky  wing  beats.  His  flight  is  not  usually 
swift.  It  is  a  good  test  of  knowledge  as  to 
the  flight  of  the  common  birds  to  name  them 
when  looking  through  the  car-window  of  a 
train  that  is  whirling  through  the  country  at 
a  good  rate  of  speed.  To  one  familiar  with 
these  birds  their  various  peculiarities  are  as 
easy  to  read  as  print.  Crow,  dove,  yellow- 
hammer,  shrike,  meadow-lark,  blackbirds,  and 
sometimes  the  fluttering,  tremulous  flight  of 
the  upland  plover  will  be  seen,  and  it  takes 
the  practised  vision  of  the  outdoor  man  or 
woman  to  name  them  as  they  are  seen. 

Over  the  woods  and  pastures  and  above 
the  fields  as  twilight  approaches  the  night- 
hawk  flies.  His  flight  is  made  up  of  darts, 
swoopings,  and  sudden  pauses.  His  raucous 
cry  is  heard  as  his  sharp-pointed  wings  sweep 
41 


OUTDOORS 


through  the  upper  spaces.  His  motion  is 
exceedingly  irregular  and  full  of  sharp  an- 
gles. It  is  a  herald  of  the  night,  and  after 
it  comes  the  aerial  wrigglings  and  twistings 
of  the  bat  over  marshy  nooks  where 

"  Steadily  up  from  their  swampy  forge  the  sparks  of  fire- 
flies rise, 

In  the  pool  where  the  wading  lily  makes  love  through 
half-shut  eyes, 

To  the  whippoorwill,  who  scolds  like  a  shrew  at  the  fluffy 
owl, 

While  the  nighthawk  shuffles  by  like  a  monk  in  a  velvet 
cowl; 

And  the  bat  weaves  inky  weft  through  white  star  beams 
that  peep 

Down  through  the  cypress  boughs,  where  the  frogs  all 
sing  knee-deep." 


FISHING   FOR  CRAPPIE 

FISHING  for  crappie,  or,  as  they  are 
more  familiarly  known,  croppie,  is  a 
sport  which  numbers  many  devotees 
among   anglers.      The  crappie  has   a   wide- 
spread range  within  his  territorial  limits,  and 
is  equally  at  home  in  lake  or  river.     In  some 
localities  he  is  known  as  the  "  new  light  " 
and  the  "  bachelor."     And  in  certain  lakes  I 
have   always   heard  the   fishermen   call  him 
the  "  silver  bass." 

In  form  he  is  something  like  a  bass,  but 
with  a  weaker  outline  and  a  more  showy  set 
of  fins.  In  color  he  is  a  silvery  olive,  with  a 
brassy  sheen,  and  mottled  with  greenish  hue. 
Crappies  weigh  from  a  fourth  of  a  pound  up 
to  nearly  a  pound,  the  majority  of  them 
running  about  half  a  pound  in  weight.  I 
have  seen  some  large  ones  of  a  full  pound 
in  weight,  but  these  big  fellows  are  scarce. 
The  crappie  is  a  true  sunfish,  so  far  as  his 
technical  place  among  the  fish  is  concerned. 

43 


OUTDOORS 


And  because  he  is  a  handsome  fish,  with  his 
gleaming  sides  and  mottled  scales,  he  is  quite 
a  favorite  among  those  lesser  anglers  whose 
minds  do  not  aspire  to  the  u  jumping  bass," 
the  lithe  pickerel,  or  the  sturdy  wall-eyed  pike. 

The  crappie  will  sometimes  strike  at  a 
"  spoon  "  when  a  man  is  trolling  for  pickerel 
or  bass,  and  a  few  are  caught  in  that  way 
every  year.  But  with  his  comparatively  small 
mouth  it  is  plain  to  be  seen  that  nature  never 
intended  the  crappie  as  a  swallower  of  large 
baits  or  lures.  When  he  "  strikes  "  a  spoon 
and  hooks  himself,  he  makes  a  very  feeble 
fight,  and  is  easily  lifted  into  the  boat.  But 
he  is  only  occasionally  caught  in  this  way. 
The  recognized  method  to  fish  for  crappie 
5n  the  lakes  is  by  still-fishing  for  them  and 
by  "  drifting."  In  still-fishing  in  the  lakes  the 
boat  is  anchored  in  water  twenty  or  thirty 
yards  from  the  shore,  and  the  fisherman  sits 
hopefully  in  the  bow  or  the  stern  of  the  boat 
and  waits  for  the  crappie  to  engulf  the  bait. 

There  is  nothing  on  earth  that  can  equal 

the  patient  serenity  of  expression  which  rests 

on    the   sunburned    features    of   these    living 

pictures  at  such  times.    The  fatter  a  man  or 

44 


FISHING    FOR    CRAPPIE 

woman  is,  the  better,  and  a  broad-brimmed 
straw  hat  makes  a  good  frame  for  their  rubi- 
cund faces.  The  pole  is  grasped  firmly,  and 
the  cork,  or  "  float,"  if  one  is  used,  is 
scrutinized  with  painful  fixity  of  gaze.  The 
sun  beats  down,  strikes  the  water,  and  glances 
into  the  eyes  of  the  immovable  angler.  He 
never  even  winks.  As  though  moulded  in 
bronze,  he  watches  the  cork.  Should  a  boat 
approach  as  though  coming  to  disturb  the 
water  near  the  boat,  his  tense  brow  wrinkles 
in  disapprobation,  but  he  watches  the  cork. 

If  the  occupants  of  the  oncoming  skiff 
should  hold  up  a  fine  string  of  fish,  he  will  eye 
them  hungrily  with  just  the  tail  of  one  eye, 
but  he  watches  the  cork.  If  news  is  brought 
of  war,  pestilence,  treason,  sudden  death, 
throne-agitating  happenings  of  dreadful  im- 
port, news  of  vast  and  awful  portent,  he  sim- 
ply closes  his  jaws  tighter,  mutters  "  um, 
hum,"  or  "ah-ha,"  and  still  watches  the  cork. 
For  statuelike  contemplation,  stolidity  of  ex- 
pression, and  stoic  patience,  not  even  a  graven 
image  can  equal  the  face  of  the  fat  man  or 
woman  who,  on  a  hot  day,  when  crappies 
are  biting,  watches  the  cork. 
45 


OUTDOORS 


But  how  beautiful  is  the  metamorphosis 
on  this  stony,  reddened  visage  when  a  slight 
ripple  around  the  "  float  "  betokens  a  nibble ! 
The  stern  lines  about  the  lips  begin  to  relax 
a  little,  and  the  eyes  of  the  watcher  soften. 
The  pole  is  rigidity  itself,  lest  the  slightest 
movement  might  frighten  away  the  finny 
denizen  below,  who  is  pursuing  his  investi- 
gations warily.  As  the  nibble  becomes  more 
pronounced,  a  well-defined  gleam  of  hope 
comes  into  the  eyes  of  the  fisherman,  and  a 
tremulous  crease  of  expectancy  dimples  his 
puffy  cheeks.  And  lastly,  as  the  "  float " 
goes  under,  and  with  neatness  and  celerity 
our  corpulent  friend  whips  a  fine  crappie 
from  the  depths,  what  a  smile  irradiates  his 
features.  A  calm  grin  of  contentment  bil- 
lows his  countenance  with  an  unctuous  hap- 
piness, as  with  half-closed  eyes  he  looks  out 
over  the  water  as  he  rebaits  the  hook,  with 
an  expression  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Oh,  it's 
a  good  world,  I  think;  a  good  world." 

In  still-fishing  for  all  fish  the  temptation 
is  to  keep  on  catching  them  as  long  as  the 
fish  will  bite.  This  is  a  very  short-sighted 
policy.  A  string  of  twenty-five  or  thirty 


FISHING    FOR    CRAPPIE 

crappie  will  make  a  meal  for  several  persons, 
and  only  the  hoggishly  inclined  will  keep  on 
fishing  after  they  have  caught  a  good  string. 
Contemplation,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  is  one  of 
the  true  beauties  of  still-fishing — just  to  loaf 
and  invite  one's  soul;  to  take  it  easy,  and 
not  care  particularly  whether  you  are  going 
to  get  a  big  string  of  fish  or  not.  There  is 
everything  around  you  to  encourage  this 
dolce  far  niente  feeling.  There  is  a  world 
about  you,  if  you  will  just  take  a  little  notice 
of  it.  Pictures  and  dreams  all  spread  out 
before  you,  and  music,  too,  of  subtlest  sort. 

In  the  morning  around  the  lakes  you  can 
see  the  sooty  terns,  with  their  wandering, 
aimless  flight,  dipping  and  shifting  about  the 
shores.  Occasionally  they  give  their  quaint, 
shrill,  skreeling  cry  as  they  pass.  Long  lines 
of  blackbirds  cross  over,  sometimes  in  per- 
fect silence,  sometimes  with  a  reassuring 
"  clack,  clack, "  from  one  of  the  travellers. 
An  old  blue  heron  may  slant  past  like  a  patch 
of  smoke  blown  from  a  cannon's  mouth. 
And  the  "  flicker,"  or  golden-winged  wood- 
pecker, with  his  scallopy  curves,  flies  by  with 
steady  wing.  Over  the  water  the  wind  wrin- 

47 


OUTDOORS 


kles  a  web  of  ripples  and  a  dead  leaf  from 
the  hills  lies  brown  on  the  bright  water.  The 
sun  comes  down  with  sheen  of  gold,  and  the 
bulrushes  stand  in  olive-green  masses  that 
droop  to  the  lake's  edge. 

Many  of  the  western  rivers  are  first-class 
streams  for  crappie,  and  one  of  the  popular 
diversions  along  these  rivers  is  the  "  fish- fry," 
at  which  the  harmless,  necessary  crappie  has 
a  useful  and  an  honored  position.  He  is  the 
handiest  fish  to  catch,  for  he  can  be  depended 
upon  to  bite  when  some  of  the  other  fish  refuse 
to  touch  a  hook,  and  in  numbers  sufficient  to 
furnish  forth  the  feast.  Fried  in  cornmeal 
the  crappie  is  delicious,  but  he  should  be  put 
in  the  pan  soon  after  leaving  the  water.  In 
some  streams  there  seems  to  be  an  inexhaust- 
ible supply  of  these  fish.  As  fast  as  you  pull 
one  out  another  comes  to  take  the  place  of 
the  .departed.  And  if  you  haul  out  twenty 
or  thirty  there  in  the  morning,  there  will  be 
an  equal  number  ready  to  take  the  hook  in 
the  afternoon.  They  are  apparently  always 
willing  to  come  out  and  occupy  the  post  of 
honor  at  a  "  fry."  It  is  a  dreamy,  lazy  way 
of  fishing  to  sit  in  the  shade  and  watch  the 
48 


FISHING    FOR    CRAPPIE 

"  bobber  "  as  it  rides  the  current.  And  when 
the  "  bobber  "  begins  to  turn  and  swing  and 
bob,  and  finally  goes  under,  what  a  calm  sat- 
isfaction there  is  in  lifting  out  a  wriggling 
crappie  and  letting  him  lie  on  the  thick  grass 
under  the  trees.  How  you  admire  his  bright 
tints  and  with  what  good-nature  you  "  heft  " 
him  before  you  put  him  on  the  string ! 

Still-fishing  on  the  river-banks  for  crappie 
is  more  essentially  philosophical  and  Wal- 
tonian  than  the  lake-fishing,  for  several  rea- 
sons. In  the  first  place,  the  crappie  does  not 
make  a  fight,  as  a  bass  does,  and  you  are  not 
apt  to  be  disturbed  by  a  bass  in  the  river- 
fishing.  And  then  a  river  has  a  great  deal 
more  individuality  and  expression  than  a  lake. 
A  river  is  going  somewhere  and  is  doing 
something.  It  suggests  a  final  picture  of  the 
sea.  So  that  even  in  the  dreamy  summer 
freshness,  under  the  trees  along  the  river- 
banks,  you  can  call  up  salt  seas  and  the  snows 
of  myriad  wings  of  restless  gulls.  A  lake,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  purely  pastoral  and  re- 
ceptive. No  current  to  speak  of  and  no 
carrying  down  of  any  message  to  the  sea. 
Still-fishing  for  the  smaller  fishes  is  conducive 

49 


OUTDOORS 


to  the  highest  development  of  the  reflective 
faculties. 

No  man  who  truly  loves  angling  can  be 
wholly  bad.  It  requires  a  love  for  the  beauti- 
ful in  nature,  a  gentle  sorrow  for  the  deluded 
fishes  which  swallow  the  bait,  a  chaste  and 
tempered  joy  in  their  capture  and  a  serenity 
of  faith  and  optimism  in  the  outlook  upon 
life. 

Take,  then,  your  long  cane  pole  and  your 
gayly  colored  "  bobbers,"  equip  yourself  with 
hooks  and  lines,  with  basket,  and  a  pipe  to 
smoke  betimes.  Go  to  some  quiet  stream 
where  the  amiable  and  innocent  crappie  may 
be  found.  Select  a  shady  and  unfrequented 
spot  under  a  broad-spreading  tree  and  bait 
your  hook  with  worm  or  grub.  Toss  the  hook 
gently  in  and  lie  down  on  the  grass  with  your 
pipe,  if  you  are  a  worshipper  at  the  shrine  of 
Lady  Nicotine.  Look  at  the  sunlight  sifting 
down  through  the  leaves  above  and  think  how 
cool  and  bright,  how  sweet  and  still  the  day  is. 
And  do  you  be  properly  thankful  for  your 
golden  opportunity  to  "  goe  a-fysshynge." 


IN  THE  HAUNTS  OF  THE 
LOON 

THE  loon,   or  great  northern  diver, 
occupies  a  unique  place  among  the 
water-fowl  of  America.     He  is  a 
bird  set  apart  from  the  rest,  a  frequenter  of 
loneliest  lakes,  a  weird  speck  on  shadowy  wa- 
ters.   In  old  days,  when  the  Indians  roamed 
the  hills  and  valleys,  they  believed  the  bird 
was  an  evil  spirit,  but  nevertheless  captured 
him  and  used  his  skin  for  tobacco-pouches. 

His  stretch  of  wing  from  tip  to  tip  some- 
times attains  five  feet,  but  is  usually  from 
four  to  four  and  a  half  feet  in  a  full-grown 
bird.  The  head  and  neck  are  glossy  black, 
excepting  some  small  streaks  of  white  at  the 
base  of  the  neck,  and  this  coloring  of  head 
and  neck  gives  out  green  and  purple  metallic 
shades.  The  under  parts  of  the  fowl  are 
white.  The  back  is  regularly  marked  in  black 
and  white,  and  the  bill  is  black  and  pointed. 
Besides  the  great  northern  diver,  there  are 


OUTDOORS 


the  yellow-billed  loons  and  the  red-throated 
and  black-throated  loons. 

In  the  lake  country,  where  the  land  round 
about  is  rough  and  hilly,  is  a  region  where 
this  peculiar  bird  may  be  studied  to  advan- 
tage. I  say  studied  not  in  the  sense  of  classi- 
fication and  ornithological  accuracy  as  to 
habits  and  surroundings,  but  in  the  idle  and 
curiously  speculative  spirit.  This  will  take 
in  as  accessories  the  lakes  and  hills,  the 
woods  and  sandy  shores,  the  skimming  flight 
of  sand-pipers,  and  the  seesaw  of  sun  and 
shadow  on  the  rocking  ripples.  Do  not  take 
a  camera  with  you.  Take  a  rifle  and  shoot 
a  few  times  at  the  loons  you  see,  simply  for 
the  excitement  of  watching  them  dodge.  The 
chances  are  a  hundred  to  one  that  you  will 
not  hit  a  bird. 

The  best  place  to  go  is  to  some  high  point 
overlooking  a  cove  or  bay  that  loons  fre- 
quent, and  when  you  have  found  a  pair,  you 
will  first  notice  their  fondness  for  solitude. 
A  pair  of  them  will  float  a  few  hundred  yards 
from  shore,  in  as  secluded  a  spot  as  they  can 
find,  for  hours  at  a  time.  They  do  not  heed 
the  blackbirds  that  fly  across,  nor  the  hawks 
52 


IN   THE    HAUNTS   OF   THE    LOON 

that  circle  in  stately  rings  above  the  trees  at 
the  edge  of  the  lake.  The  flight  of  the  blue- 
bill,  ringbill,  teal,  or  merganser  ducks  is  un- 
noticed by  the  loon,  for  a  more  unsociable 
bird  never  existed.  Sometimes,  though,  a 
pair  of  loons  will  lure  ducks  away  from  the 
decoys  that  a  hunter  has  thrown  out,  thereby 
earning  a  decided  opinion  of  the  sportsman 
as  to  loons. 

For  hours,  then,  you  can  watch  them  drift- 
ing here  and  there,  apparently  serenely  un- 
conscious of  the  world  beyond  the  edge  of 
the  lake.  But  if  you  send  a  thirty-two-calibre 
rifle  bullet  out  over  the  water  at  the  head  of 
the  nearest  bird,  he  will  dive  down  at  the 
report  like  a  flash,  and  your  missile  will  waste 
its  force  on  the  water,  where  an  instant  be- 
fore he  was  swimming.  During  the  time 
when  he  is  undisturbed  he  will  dive  occasion- 
ally, and  sometimes  he  stretches  his  broad 
wings  in  cumbrous  flight  down  the  middle  of 
the  lake  to  another  refuge.  There  he  will 
swim  about  until  the  lack  of  any  disturbing 
element  finally  arouses  his  suspicions,  when 
he  will  return  to  his  former  retreat  to  float 
and  dive,  and  dream  the  hours  away. 
53 


OUTDOORS 


The  loon  adds  to  the  picturesque  charm  of 
these  lakes,  but,  unfortunately  for  his  love  of 
peace,  he  is  not  allowed  to  pursue  the  even 
tenor  of  his  way  in  quiet.  The  taxidermist 
covets  him,  shoots  him,  and  mounts  him  on 
a  board.  But  the  taxidermist  cannot  repro- 
duce the  framing  of  water,  shore,  sky,  and 
woodland  which  completes  the  picture,  so  the 
stuffed  and  mounted  loon  of  the  glass  case 
exhibit  is  the  most  patent  of  frauds.  And 
therein  taxidermy  always  fails.  Fortunately 
for  himself,  the  loon  is  a  marvellous  diver 
and  swimmer,  and  at  the  report  of  a  gun  he 
will  dart  down  and  out  of  danger  in  almost 
every  instance  before  a  bullet  reaches  him. 
His  poise  and  motion  while  on  the  water  are 
graceful  and  strong.  In  the  air  he  is  clumsy 
but  effectual.  In  fifteen  years'  experience 
around  the  lakes  I  have  yet  to  see  one  on 
land.  But  they  must  be  as  awkward  as  pen- 
guins when  they  attempt  to  walk. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  things  about 
the  loon  is  his  call,  or  cry.  To  the  super- 
stitious it  is  appalling,  and  to  every  one  it  is 
one  of  the  most  grewsome  sounds  in  nature. 
It  is  a  kind  of  cackling,  maniacal  laughter,  ris- 
54 


IN   THE    HAUNTS   OF  THE   LOON 

ing  at  its  height  almost  to  a  scream.  There 
is  nothing  like  it  in  the  mysteries  of  outdoor 
sounds,  and  when  heard  in  the  gathering  twi- 
light it  is  the  ghostliest  of  all  echoes.  The 
faces  of  drowned  men  rise,  they  say,  when 
the  loon's  mocking  merriment  sweeps  over  the 
lake,  and  the  solemn  notes  of  bull-frogs  sink 
in  silence  as  the  cry  floats  past.  As  the  sickle 
of  the  new  moon  is  etched  beyond  the  hills, 
and  shadows  hover  over  emerald-burnished 
rushes,  and  the  sands  are  dusky  in  the  still- 
ness, there  comes  the  raucous  complaint  of 
the  great  diver.  And,  if  you  are  a  believer 
in  the  ghostly  and  the  supernatural,  you  will 
say  it  is  the  cry  of  a  lost  spirit,  the  wail  of  a 
soul  from  the  confines  of  "  night's  Plutonian 
shore." 

The  loon  is  hunted  as  a  "  specimen,"  to  be 
mounted  and  set  in  store-windows  or  mu- 
seums, and  hunters  sometimes  shoot  loons  to 
adorn  a  "  den  "  with.  But  this  is  only  done 
by  the  unthinking.  For  the  proper  place  for 
all  birds  that  are  not  strictly  edible  game- 
birds,  is  their  native  haunts.  It  would  be 
very  difficult  to  shoot  a  loon  with  a  shot-gun, 
as  he  almost  invariably  keeps  out  of  shot-gun 

55 


OUTDOORS 


range.  Occasionally,  however,  he  will  swing 
in  near  enough  to  a  "  blind  "  to  invite  de- 
struction. 

Web- footed  as  the  loons  are,  with  short, 
muscular  legs,  swimming  and  diving  is  their 
forte.  They  are  adepts  at  either  branch  of 
aquatics.  They  will  dive  and  remain  beneath 
the  surface  for  a  long  time,  swimming  under 
water  with  great  rapidity.  They  live  on 
small  fish,  which  they  catch  under  water. 
What  a  picture  such  a  scene  would  make 
could  it  be  reproduced  by  photography — the 
long  neck  of  this  great  bird  stretched  out 
to  its  full  length,  its  body  darting  through 
the  water,  propelled  by  strong  strokes  of  the 
webbed  feet ;  the  eyes  gleaming,  and  the  sharp 
bill  ready  at  any  instant  to  seize  the  prey; 
the  fish,  fully  alive  to  its  peril,  dodging  and 
curving  about,  only  at  last  to  be  caught  and 
swallowed;  and  then  a  swift  uprising  to  the 
surface,  and  a  parting  of  the  water  when  the 
snaky  head  and  neck  reappear.  There  is  a 
natural  touch  in  the  idea  of  one  fish  preying 
upon  another,  but  the  thought  of  this  weird 
black  bird  whizzing  through  under  depths  of 
green  water  seeking  its  food,  is  a  reminder 

5.6 


IN   THE    HAUNTS   OF   THE    LOON 

of  old  forms  of  animal  life — of  days  when 
strange  creatures  crawled  and  swam  and  flew, 
part  fish,  part  bird,  and  part  reptile. 

The  name  of  the  loon  has  been  taken  in 
vain  by  the  writers,  for  it  has  been  used  to 
denote  a  foolish  or  a  distracted  person,  and 
the  great  diver  is  not  at  all  wanting  in 
sagacity. 

"  Hold  off;  unhand  me,  gray-beard  loon! 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  he." 

"  Loon  "  or  "  lown  "  is  also  used  to  sig- 
nify stupidity.  Any  one  who  has  gone  out 
with  a  rifle  to  secure  a  specimen  for  tax- 
idermy will  hardly  accuse  the  loon  of  that 
failing.  He  has  a  proper  suspicion  of,  and 
a  deep-seated  respect  for,  that  arch-slayer, 
man.  The  big  diver  will  swim  away  quietly, 
always  keeping  a  safe  distance  between  him- 
self and  the  boat,  and  if  fired  at  he  will  dive 
at  the  flash  of  a  gun,  very  seldom  taking 
wing.  He  will  rely  almost  always  on  his 
power  of  swimming  and  diving  to  take  him 
out  of  harm's  way. 

The  loon,  the  heron,  the  bittern,  and  the 
bull-frog  are  the  oddities  of  the  lake  and 
57 


OUTDOORS 


marsh  country,  and  add  appreciably  to  the 
pleasures  of  those  who  love  to  drift  idly 
over  the  lakes  or  penetrate  reedy  edges  of 
lonely  bays  and  inlets.  The  bull-frog,  with 
his  thunderous  gutturals,  chants  basso  notes 
in  the  deepening  twilight,  and  these  echoes  are 
carried  across  the  lily-pads  and  bulrush-beds. 
The  heron  floats  westward  with  the  dying 
sun,  and  himself  seems  a  faint,  gray  frag- 
ment of  belated  cloud,  blown  by  on  tardy 
winds.  The  bittern,  rising  awkwardly  from 
the  reeds  on  elongated  wing,  doubles  his  legs 
under  him  and  manages  to  swing  away  like 
a  balloon,  shifted  from  side  to  side  by  op- 
posing air-currents.  And  the  lone  loon, 
black-headed  and  alert,  rocking  in  secluded 
cove  or  silent  bay,  laughs  loud  and  mock- 
ingly at  the  twilight  as  the  sun  fades  behind 
the  hills. 

The  chorus  of  frogs  dies  away  and  is  for- 
gotten. The  flight  of  the  heron,  dim  as 
passing  mist,  melted  like  mist  and  claimed 
no  remembrance.  The  bittern's  scrambling 
exit  left  the  reeds  tenantless,  with  only  the 
night-winds  creeping  through  where  his  un- 
gainly body  had  made  broken  spaces.  But 

58 


IN   THE    HAUNTS   OF  THE   LOON 

the  cry  of  the  loon,  that  cynical,  garrulous 
cachinnation  which  you  heard  last  in  the  gath- 
ering dusk — that  was  the  final  eerie  touch  to 
coming  night,  an  ebon  note  of  wild  glee  which 
ended  in  a  wail. 

No  weirder  echo  was  in  hell; 

The  loon  laughed,  and  then  silence  fell. 


59 


BLUEBILLS  AND    DECOYS 

DUCK  shooting  over  "  decoys  "  has 
always  been  a  favorite  sport  with 
hunters  of  wild-fowl,  and  of  all  the 
ducks  that  fly  none  decoy  more  readily  than 
"  bluebills."  The  greater  scaup  duck  and 
the  smaller  scaup  duck,  popularly  known  as 
the  big  and  little  bluebill,  or  broadbill,  are 
shot  in  great  numbers  in  the  spring  and  fall 
both  along  the  coast  and  on  inland  waters. 
The  larger  bluebills  are  about  nineteen  inches 
long,  with  a  spread  of  from  thirty  to  thirty- 
three  inches  of  wings.  Their  plumage  is 
black,  green,  and  white,  mostly;  white  on 
the  belly,  and  black  on  the  breast  and  rump. 
The  head  is  black,  with  a  greenish  tinge  in 
the  drakes.  The  bill  is  broad  and  dark  blue. 
These  birds  are  heavily  plumaged,  swift  of 
flight,  and  extremely  tenacious  of  life.  When 
crippled,  it  is  very  difficult  to  recover  them, 
and  means  a  chase  after  them  often  for  a 
mile  or  so,  the  bird  diving  at  intervals,  and 
60 


BLUEBILLS   AND    DECOYS 


showing  only  its  head  to  the  pursuing  hunter. 
It  can  safely  be  assumed  that  every  time  you 
get  out  of  the  "  blind  "  to  chase  a  cripple 
you  will  lose  a  couple  of  shots  at  other  birds 
which  will  meantime  come  in  to  your  decoys. 
Bluebills  are  so  stupid  sometimes  that  they 
will  fly  in  over  the  decoys  while  the  hunter 
is  standing  up  in  his  boat  throwing  out  the 
wooden  lures.  When  they  make  up  their 
minds  to  come  in,  they  do  not  seem  to  mind 
the  presence  of  a  man,  but  set  their  wings 
and  sail  right  in.  The  bigger  bunch  of  de- 
coys a  hunter  has,  the  better  sport  he  is  likely 
to  have.  Bluebill  decoys  are  the  best  to  use, 
and  a  flock  of  one  hundred  will  be  found  not 
too  many,  especially  where  the  birds  have 
been  shot  at  to  any  considerable  extent.  They 
should  be  well  weighted,  and  have  sufficient 
string,  and  heavy  enough  anchoring  lead  to 
keep  them  from  dragging  in  a  stiff  wind.  In 
both  spring  and  fall  the  days  are  often  very 
windy,  and  the  direction  of  the  wind  is  likely 
to  shift,  so  that  decoys  should  be  properly 
equipped  to  stand  rough  water  without  drift- 
ing. The  throwing  out  of  decoys  is  easy 
enough,  but  the  arrangement  of  them  into 
61 


OUTDOORS 


flocks  requires  experience.  They  should  not 
be  bunched  closely  together,  but  separated  so 
as  to  present  the  natural  appearance  of  a 
flock  of  live  birds.  When  some  of  them  turn 
upside  down,  as  they  may  do  when  tossed 
from  the  boat,  they  should  be  righted  at  once, 
it  being  one  of  the  dispensations  of  Provi- 
dence that  live  ducks  do  not  swim  on  their 
backs.  Little  omissions  of  this  sort  may 
cause  some  shy  old  drake  to  give  your 
"  blind  "  a  wide  sweep. 

"Blinds"  are  either  shore  "  blinds "  or 
"  blinds "  built  around  a  boat  or  natural 
growth  of  grass,  bulrushes,  or  reeds.  The 
best  "  blind  "  is  that  of  the  natural  growth, 
when  that  can  be  had;  although  a  shore 
"  blind,"  when  made  out  of  a  hole  dug  in 
some  sandy  point,  with  a  slight  fringe  of 
dead  grass  above,  is  a  very  "killing"  place 
of  concealment  sometimes. 

A  shore  "  blind  "  made  of  willows,  rushes, 
and  a  little  hay  is  good,  and  to  build  a 
"  blind  "  around  a  boat  you  need  brush  and 
willows  for  the  skeleton  or  poles  and  twine, 
and  grass  and  reeds  to  fill  in  the  spaces. 
A  first-rate  "  blind  "  can  be  made  around  a 
62 


BLUEBILLS   AND    DECOYS 

boat  by  sinking  half  a  dozen  or  more  stout 
stakes  at  the  sides  and  end  of  the  craft,  bind- 
ing these  together  with  thick,  strong  cord, 
and  thatching  the  cord  with  grass,  rushes,  or 
whatever  natural  growth  is  common  to  the 
locality.  Building  a  "  blind  "  is  a  matter  of 
the  greatest  possible  importance.  It  should 
not  be  too  high  or  too  conspicuously  heavy. 
It  should  present  as  near  as  may  be  from  the 
outside  a  semblance  of  natural  growth  similar 
to  the  growth  about  the  surrounding  shores. 

As  a  rule  a  low  "  blind  "  is  the  best,  espe- 
cially when  the  hunters  build  one  about  a  boat. 
They  must  depend  considerably  on  crouching 
low  and  on  keeping  absolutely  immovable. 
There  is  nothing  so  exasperating  in  duck 
shooting  over  decoys  as  the  man  who  persists 
in  getting  up  to  stretch  himself,  and  see  if 
the  ducks  are  coming.  The  ducks  can  see 
him  as  far  or  farther  than  he  can  see  them, 
and  they  will  sheer  off  when  they  catch  a 
glimpse  of  him  squatting  down  when  he  notes 
their  approach. 

Some  men  sit  with  the  barrels  of  their  guns 
sticking  up  over  the  top  of  the  "  blind  "  and 
then  wonder  why  the  ducks  don't  come  in. 

63 


OUTDOORS 


They  might  as  well  be  waving  the  American 
flag  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  brass  band. 
Even  the  bluebills,  stupid  as  they  sometimes 
act,  are  not  entirely  fatalists. 

When  a  bunch  of  bluebills  come  in  they 
sometimes  keep  close  together  until  within  a 
couple  of  hundred  yards  of  the  decoys,  and 
then  they  separate  and  whirl  in  all  over  the 
decoys.  This  is  varied  with  exhibitions  of 
swinging  in  and  settling  down  close  to  the 
decoys,  with  their  wings  outspread  and  their 
white  bodies  shining  in  the  sunlight.  Or  they 
may  dip  as  if  going  to  settle,  and  then  swing 
away  without  stopping.  Pairs  and  singles 
usually  decoy  with  hardly  any  hesitation.  It 
is  usually  hard  to  get  a  raking  shot  at  blue- 
bills,  although  cross  shots,  where  two  birds 
are  killed  with  one  barrel,  are  of  frequent 
occurrence.  The  best  practice  is  to  select  your 
duck  and  not  bother  about  the  other  birds  in 
the  flock. 

A  bluebill  needs  the  centre  of  the  charge  to 
kill  him,  or  a  shot  through  the  head  or  neck. 
He  can  carry  off  shot  in  his  body  better  than 
most  ducks.  Number  six  shot  in  the  right- 
hand  barrel  and  number  four  in  the  left  bar- 


BLUEBILLS   AND    DECOYS 

rel  has  been  my  load  for  them,  backed  up  by 
plenty  of  powder.  For  cripples  a  number  of 
shells  loaded  with  number  eight  shot  will 
come  in  handy.  When  a  bluebill  falls  you 
can  often  tell  whether  he  is  dead  or  only 
wounded,  by  his  wing-action;  if  wing-tipped, 
or  only  hard  hit,  he  will  usually  swerve,  or 
sail  down  to  the  water;  if  killed  stone  dead, 
he  drops  like  a  plummet.  If  wounded,  slip 
in  a  shell  loaded  with  number  eight,  and 
when  he  starts  to  swim  off  give  it  to  him  in 
the  head. 

The  best  way  to  get  good  shooting  for 
these  ducks  is  to  find  where  a  flock  of  them 
have  been  feeding,  in  some  cove  or  bay.  If 
possible,  find  a  flock  that  has  not  been  shot  at. 
Paddle  down  to  them  and  scare  them  away 
without  firing  a  single  shot  at  them,  no  mat- 
ter how  good  a  chance  you  get.  Build  your 
"  blind "  where  they  have  been  and  throw 
out  your  decoys.  If  there  was  a  big  bunch 
there,  say,  one  hundred  or  so  birds,  they  will 
afford  shooting  all  day  for  you.  At  first, 
when  frightened  from  their  feeding-ground, 
they  will  fly  out  to  the  main  waters  of  the 
lake  and  drop  down  with  some  other  big 

65 


OUTDOORS 


gang.  But  after  a  while,  say,  in  an  hour  or 
so,  they  will  begin  to  yearn  for  the  flesh-pots 
of  Egypt,  and  will  get  up  in  small  bunches — 
five,  three,  and  even  pairs  and  singles — and 
start  back  for  their  former  feeding-ground. 

As  they  see  your  decoys  they  will  set  their 
wings  and  come  in  bravely  to  your  "  blind." 
Now  is  your  time.  For  doubles,  let  them  get 
well  in  before  you  rise  to  shoot,  for  it  is  sur- 
prising how  quickly  a  bluebill  can  get  away 
from  a  dangerous  spot  when  he  sees  and  real- 
izes the  necessity  for  so  doing.  He  is  a 
winged  athlete,  and  the  way  he  will  whirl 
away  as  you  stand  up  in  the  boat  will  make 
you  hustle  to  get  him. 

Sometimes  a  pair  of  suspicious  bluebills 
will  anchor  off  your  decoys  and  browse 
around  for  awhile.  Let  them  alone.  The 
chances  are  good  for  their  eventually  giving 
way  to  their  curiosity  and  swimming  in  close 
enough  for  you  to  get  a  shot.  They  are  in  the 
habit  of  giving  a  curious  purring,  chuckling 
noise  as  they  feed  or  float  about,  and  some  of 
the  hunters  imitate  this  sound  so  exactly  that 
the  deluded  birds  will  come  in  readily  to  their 
decoys. 

66 


BLUEBILLS   AND    DECOYS 

"  Travellers,"  or  ducks  that  are  on  their 
way  south  or  north,  do  not  decoy  so  readily 
as  the  birds  which  have  settled  down  to  feed 
in  some  cove  or  lake  and  have  been  undis- 
turbed for  some  time.  Ringbills,  ruddies, 
butterballs,  red-heads,  widgeons,  pintail,  and 
mallards  are  apt  to  come  in  at  times  during 
the  day  with  the  bluebills,  but  bluebills  and 
ringbills  will  be  the  most  numerous.  The 
red-heads  are  getting  scarcer,  and  mallards 
mostly  stick  to  the  timber  with  the  pintail, 
but  good  bluebill  and  ringbill  shooting  is  had 
every  spring  and  fall  in  the  lakes,  rivers,  and 
marshes  of  many  of  the  states. 

There  is,  naturally,  much  attendant  hard- 
ship in  duck  shooting.  The  throwing  out 
and  picking  up  of  decoys  in  cold  or  stormy 
weather  is  hard  work,  the  rowing  of  a  heavily 
laden  boat  in  rough  water  is  sometimes  dan- 
gerous, and,  generally  speaking,  shooting  over 
decoys  is  sport  that  tests  the  patience  and 
physique  of  the  hunter  severely.  It  ruins  a 
complexion,  and  unless  you  use  gloves,  your 
hands  are  a  sight  after  a  couple  of  days. 
The  chill  winds  sweep  down  when  you  sit  in 
a  boat  for  a  few  hours  and  preempt  the 


OUTDOORS 


choice  spots  in  your  marrow,  and  at  other 
times  the  sun  burns  and  cracks  your  lips; 
and  altogether  you  must  have  patience  and 
"  sand  "  to  be  a  "  thorough-bred  "  when  it 
comes  to  a  week's  shooting  in  the  early  spring 
or  late  fall  over  decoys. 


68 


WALKING  AS  AN  ART 

WALKING  as  an  art  has  almost 
fallen  into  disuse  in  these  days  of 
wheels,  electricity,  and  horseless 
vehicles.  Yet  to  some  of  the  old-fogy  class, 
pedestrianism  still  has  charms.  At  the  lake 
summer-resorts  and  the  farms  where  city 
people  go  for  their  mid-year  vacations,  you 
will  find  many  bicycles  and  very  little  evi- 
dence of  stout  walking-shoes.  This  is  not  as 
it  should  be,  for,  with  its  many  advantages, 
a  bicycle  is  not  fitted  to  carry  a  person  into 
the  inner  sanctuaries  of  the  woods  and 
fields  where  nature  has  her  choicest  treasures 
hidden. 

You  have  been  at  the  lake  for  a  week  with 
your  wheel,  and  you  have  gone  to  town  a 
couple  of  times  with  it  and  skirted  the  fields 
and  forests.  You  have  dawdled  in  ham- 
mocks and  trifled  at  lawn-tennis,  and  imag- 
ined that  you  were  enjoying  yourself  and  see- 
ing the  country.  In  reality,  you  have  been 


OUTDOORS 


looking  at  nature  through  the  wrong  end  of 
an  opera-glass.  To-day,  as  you  promised,  we 
will  go  around  the  lake  together  on  foot.  No 
gun,  no  fishing-rod,  nothing  but  a  light  stick 
and  a  substantial  lunch,  not  forgetting  a 
couple  of  apples  apiece.  We  will  wear  stout 
shoes  and  old  clothes,  for  this  will  be  tramp- 
ing, pure  and  simple. 

We  are  away  now,  and  this  is  the  first 
slope,  where  these  oaks  are.  The  grass  is 
thick  and  green,  and  a  robin  is  hopping  se- 
dately along  at  the  top  of  the  hill.  The  lake 
shines  and  shimmers  through  the  trees,  and  a 
crow  is  cawing  somewhere  overhead.  There 
is  the  very  breath  and  feeling  of  out-of-doors 
among  those  massive  trunks  and  waving 
branches.  See  how  the  sunlight  scatters  fine 
flakes,  as  a  sower  might  send  with  his  palm 
shining  handfuls  of  grain  over  a  March  field. 
There  is  a  singing  in  the  very  bosom  of  the 
hills,  a  palpitating  of  life  in  the  leaves,  that 
tells  of  the  fervent  passion  of  summer,  the 
blossoming  of  June. 

Down  in  that  pocket  of  the  slopes,  walled 
round  by  alders  and  brush,  is  a  little  pool, 
shallow,  and  hidden  from  everything  but  the 
70 


WALKING    AS   AN   ART 

prying  eye  of  the  sun.  If  an  eager-eyed 
water-spaniel  were  to  browse  around  in  those 
alders  to-day  he  might  find  nothing  for  his 
trouble.  Later  on,  in  July,  possibly,  he  would 
disturb  a  spritelike  bird,  which  would  rise  out 
of  the  alders  like  a  ray  of  light  and  disap- 
pear as  swiftly  as  a  shadow — a  woodcock. 

Now  here  we  dip  toward  a  sandy  point 
that  extends  into  the  lake,  and  we  will  wait 
awhile  on  this  high  bank  and  take  an  obser- 
vation. A  little  distance  from  the  lake's  edge 
a  grebe  is  swimming.  The  boys  and  hunters 
call  them  "  hell-divers."  They  are  greatly  in 
use  as  targets  by  ambitious  riflemen  and  boys 
who  go  about  with  revolvers  peppering  away 
at  everything  alive.  Their  miraculous  swift- 
ness in  diving  renders  their  persecution  almost 
entirely  harmless.  Those  two  small,  dark 
specks  just  about  to  alight  on  the  end  of  the 
point  are  spotted  sand-pipers.  And  now  up 
and  around  to  the  first  bridge.  There  goes 
a  big  garter-snake.  He  is  perfectly  harmless 
— don't  kill  him.  A  golden-winged  wood- 
pecker is  calling  from  another  hill,  and  now 
he  flies  across,  dipping  and  rising  as  he  goes. 
You  should  walk  in  the  fields  and  the  woods 


OUTDOORS 


year  in  and  year  out  until  you  could  tell  all 
of  the  common  birds  by  their  flight  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  away.  Get  your  ornithology  direct 
from  the  woods,  streams,  and  fields. 

In  walking,  hold  yourself  well  together. 
Walk  erect  and  from  the  hips,  swinging  your 
arms  easily.  Never  hump  along  or  toe  in. 
It  is  perfectly  simple  to  do  this,  and  the  easi- 
est thing  in  the  world  to  have  a  style  and 
verve  in  walking.  And  not  more  than  one 
man  or  woman  in  a  thousand  walks  decently 
well ;  the  rest  amble,  sprawl,  slouch,  or  weave 
along  in  a  manner  to  disgrace  pedestrianism. 
Cultivate  a  chest  well  forward,  the  soft  flan- 
nel shirt,  the  hip  movement,  and  the  carriage 
of  a  man  and  a  soldier!  Notice  a  West 
Pointer!  Why,  he  handles  himself  like  a 
greyhound.  Seek  for  an  erect  carriage,  so 
that  when  you  are  seventy,  men  will  turn  and 
say,  "  he  carries  himself  like  a  man!  " 

Here  is  the  bridge.  The  water  is  low 
now  and  you  can  see  sunfish  swimming  in  the 
shadows  of  the  bridge  timbers.  Do  you 
remember  the  "  pin-hook  "  days  of  your  boy- 
hood? Lily-pads  are  thick  here,  and  far- 
ther up  the  creek  you  can  see  snowy  water- 
72 


WALKING    AS   AN   ART 

lilies  floating  on  the  surface.  The  red-winged 
blackbirds  are  down  here  at  the  creek,  and 
their  liquid  clean  whistle,  "  oak-a-lee,  oak-a- 
lee,  clack-clack,  oak-a-lee,"  sounds  sweetly 
over  the  water.  In  those  tall  rushes  and 
grasses  you  would  "  jump  "  a  bittern  if  you 
were  to  push  into  the  cover  with  a  skiff. 

We  turn  into  the  woods  here  and  begin  to 
go  around  the  head  of  the  lake.  This  timber 
is  squirrel-timber.  That  tree  there  —  what 
would  I  call  it?  A  massive  trunk  with  no 
branches  for  a  height  of  fifty  feet  from  the 
ground.  It  isn't  an  oak,  an  ash,  an  elm,  a 
hickory,  basswood,  or  sycamore.  Oh,  you 
have  noticed  that  bead  of  gummy  sap  in  that 
crack  of  the  trunk,  have  you? — a  wild-cherry 
tree.  You  would  have  hardly  believed  that 
they  could  grow  to  be  such  splendid  trees. 

There  goes  a  fox-squirrel.  He  is  just 
stretching  himself  across  the  grass  and,  doubt- 
less, believes  himself  to  be  in  imminent  dan- 
ger. We  will  give  him  a  chase  for  the  nearest 
den.  Now  he  goes  up  an  oak,  and  in  the  very 
top  he  whirls  around  a  limb  and  the  wind 
dangles  the  tip  of  his  fluffy  red  tail  from  the 
treetop. 

73 


OUTDOORS 


Down  there  to  the  left  is  a  tamarack 
swamp.  Years  ago  I  shot  ruffed  grouse 
there,  but  the  grouse  are  all  gone  from  this 
part  of  the  country  now.  There  are  quite  a 
number  of  rabbits  in  there  yet,  and  a  few 
owls.  How  dark  the  dense  green  of  tam- 
aracks shows  against  the  lighter  shades  of 
the  surrounding  woods !  The  blue  glint  of  a 
jaybird's  wings  gleams  in  the  branches  here 
and  there,  and  woodpeckers  and  nuthatches 
are  numerous.  Now  to  the  lake  again,  and 
we  shall  find  a  myriad  of  gorgeous  dragon- 
flies  darting  about  the  edges  of  the  water. 
That  ripple  extending  out  into  deeper  water 
was  where  a  bass  or  a  pickerel  slid  away  as 
we  came  toward  the  lake.  He  was  sunning 
himself  in  the  shallow  water  and  our  appear- 
ance frightened  him  away.  There's  a  frog 
by  the  side  of  that  stone.  A  bull-frog?  No, 
a  meadow-frog.  A  bull-frog  has  a  very  much 
darker  color;  this  one  is  bright  green  with 
dark  spots.  You  have  walked  seven  miles  and 
are  not  perceptibly  tired. 

From  this  opening  you  can  see  across  the 
pasture,  which  is  really  a  meadow.  A  spar- 
row-hawk is  poising  high  in  the  air,  his  wings 

74 


WALKING   AS  AN   ART 

beating  the  ether  vigorously,  as  his  body  keeps 
in  one  place  over  the  field.  The  mouse  creep- 
ing about  is  in  immediate  danger.  That 
graven  image  on  the  side  hill  of  the  pasture 
is  a  woodchuck.  He  is  watching  the  scenery 
lest  any  of  it  should  slip  away.  He  will 
squat  in  that  same  position  for  hours  if  he  is 
undisturbed.  Contemplation  is  the  chief  end 
and  aim  of  the  woodchuck. 

As  we  come  over,  and  start  to  cross  the 
meadow  a  half-dozen  bobolinks  are  pirouet- 
ting and  tumbling  in  the  air,  drunk  with  the 
wine  of  summer  and  riotous  over  a  wilderness 
of  clover-blossoms.  They  have  routed  the 
red-winged  blackbirds  from  the  rushes  and  are 
undisputed  masters  of  the  field — a  tipsy  crew 
of  aerial  Bacchanalians,  with  nothing  to  do 
but  rise  on  fluttering  wings  and  sift  melody 
through  the  sieves  of  sunlight  that  are  waver- 
ing above  the  grasses.  Such  a  madcap,  dis- 
reputable band  of  joyous  songsters !  Such  a 
disregard  of  all  theories  of  moon-filtered  pas- 
sion of  nightingale,  or  sky-flung  music  of 
English  lark!  Here  is  the  bubbling  over  of 
the  beaker  of  summer  at  last — the  plash  and 
tinkle  of  raindrops  on  glass — the  gurgle  of 

75 


OUTDOORS 


reed-fretted  rivulets — the  very  pipes  of  Pan. 
Over  and  over  the  strains  rise,  fall,  and 
waver,  to  break  forth  again  and  again.  And 
well  may  you  listen,  far  from  the  roads,  far 
from  the  town,  in  nature's  secret  cloister,  to 
the  June-spun  tissue  of  the  music  of  the  bobo- 
links 

"  Crying  'Phew,  shew,  Bob-o'-Lincoln! 
See,  see,  Wadolincoln; 
Down  among  the  tickle-tops, 
Hiding  in  the  buttercups, 
I  know  the  saucy  chap, 
I  see  his  shining  cap, 

Bobbing  in  the  clover  there.     See!  See!  See! 
Bobolink, 
Whisk-o'-dink, 
Tom  Denny,  wait,  wait,  wait.'  " 

This  is  the  stone-wall.  Nine  miles,  and  we 
are  half-way  round.  We  have  loafed,  we 
have  walked,  we  have  observed.  Honestly, 
now,  would  you  have  seen  one-tenth  as  much 
from  the  road?  Would  you  have  lugged 
your  wheel  with  you  into  all  the  by-ways  and 
nooks  where  we  have  been  to-day?  What  do 
you  think  of  walking  as  a  lost  art,  anyway? 


FISHING    FOR    "BULL- 
HEADS" 

THE  bull-pout  or  horned  pout,  also 
called  the  "bull-head,"  is  a  meek 
and  lowly  fish,  with  a  voracious  ap- 
petite for  anything  which  he  can  cover  with 
his  ample  spread  of  jaws.  He  rarely  goes 
over  a  pound  in  weight,  but  he  is  both  willing 
and  anxious  to  endeavor  to  gulp  down  a  piece 
of  bait  six  inches  square.  In  some  parts  of 
the  country  they  call  him  the  "  mud-cat."  He 
is  the  most  serious-looking  fish  in  these  United 
States.  And  although  not  heralded  afar,  as 
the  brook-trout  and  the  salmon  are,  as  a  food- 
fish  he  is  one  of  the  most  delicious  of  the 
fresh-water  tribes.  He  has  a  tough  and 
leathery  skin,  which  should  be  removed  be- 
fore he  is  cooked,  and  there  are  two  ways  of 
preparing  him  for  the  table.  The  first  way 
is  to  fry  him,  with  thin  strips  of  bacon  to 
lend  that  delicate,  poetical  flavor  of  the  pig 
to  the  dish.  The  second  way  is  to  smoke 
77 


OUTDOORS 


him,  just  as  you  would  a  white-fish.  He  is 
vastly  superior  to  the  white-fish  in  the  smoked 
state,  and  when  fried,  with  bacon  accompani- 
ment, he  divides  the  homage  of  the  palate 
with  the  aristocratic  brook-trout  and  the  flaky 
black  bass. 

It  is  true,  of  course,  that  the  first  necessity 
for  a  dish  of  fried  "  bull-head  "  is  the  "  bull- 
head." And  you  cannot  go  out  carelessly 
and  amateurishly  and  drag  out  the  "  bull- 
head "  from  his  lair  without  any  knowledge 
of  his  haunts  and  his  peculiarities.  He  be- 
longs to  a  very  exclusive,  though  humble, 
species  of  fish,  and  if  you  do  not  understand 
his  habits  and  humor,  and  his  little  eccentrici- 
ties, he  will  have  none  of  you,  nor  you  of  him. 
With  his  large  and  engulfing  mouth,  his  pig- 
gish little  black  eyes,  the  three  sharp  horns, 
one  in  the  centre  of  his  shoulders  and  one  at 
each  side  of  his  fore-shoulders,  he  is  not  a 
'beauty  from  a  piscatorial  stand-point.  His 
oily  mustachios,  similar  to  those  of  an  Alge- 
rine  pirate,  do  not  add  anything  to  his  looks. 

Neither  is  he  a  lover  of  the  sunny  side  of 
nature.  The  sweep  of  sunlight  over  the  wa- 
ter he  shuns.  The  mud  and  the  contents 

78 


FISHING    FOR    !'  BULL-HEADS  " 

thereof  are  what  he  delights  in,  and  the  wise 
fisherman  who  laughs  to  scorn  the  bony  pick- 
erel and  the  elusive  black  bass  as  table-fish, 
well  knows  the  "  bull-head's "  plebeian  in- 
stincts and  profits  nightly  by  his  knowledge. 
And,  look  you  now,  most  enthusiastic  and 
scientific  angler,  adept  at  the  "  cast "  and  lo- 
quacious as  to  the  proper  "  fly,"  this  is  no 
speckled  tiger  of  the  icy  brooks,  leaping  high 
in  air  when  he  feels  the  barb,  and  performing 
no  end  of  skilled  gymnastics  when  hooked. 
This  is  but  the  slothful  "  bull-head,"  dark  of 
color  and  sedate  of  life;  a  denizen  of  slug- 
gish waters,  and,  being  exceedingly  good  to 
eat,  the  natural  prey  of  designing  man. 

The  best  rod  to  catch  "  bull-heads  "  with  is 
your  good  right  hand.  An  old  umbrella  han- 
dle makes  a  nice  pole.  Any  piece  of  stick, 
from  a  section  of  barrel-stave  to  a  base-ball 
bat,  is  good  enough  for  this  kind  of  fishing. 
The  line  should  be  a  fairly  stout  line  of  any 
kind  or  color.  The  hook  shouldn't  be  a  hook. 
There  are  fishermen,  rank  amateurs  in  the 
noble  sport  of  "  yanking  "  out  "  bull-heads," 
who  use  hooks  in  the  business,  but  they  are 
new  at  the  trick.  The  "  bull-head,"  as  has 
79 


OUTDOORS 


before  been  remarked,  has  three  horns  con- 
nected with  his  anatomy,  any  one  of  which  is 
woful  sharp,  and  decidedly  painful  when  in- 
serted into  an  angler's  frame.  These  horns 
are  shifted  from  side  to  side  by  the  wrig- 
gling of  the  fish.  The  "  bull-head,"  when 
hoisted  from  his  native  heath,  twists  a  great 
deal  when  you  try  to  remove  him  from  the 
hook.  And  he  has  an  awkward  fashion  of 
swallowing  the  bait  clear  down  to  the  end  of 
his  tail. 

If  you  get  one  of  these  horns  into  your 
hand  it  is  one  of  the  most  painful  and  ugly 
of  hurts.  It  may  swell  up  and  cripple  your 
hand  for  a  week  or  more,  and  it  stings  and 
throbs  and  gives  you  infinite  trouble.  With 
those  three  horns,  each  pointing  a  different 
way,  it  is  a  delicate  job  to  get  the  "  bull-head  " 
off  the  barb  without  getting  "  horned." 

But  how  easily  all  this  vexation  and  pos- 
sible pain  is  avoided  by  the  knowing  seeker 
after  "  bull-heads."  He  simply  ties  a  square 
chunk  of  fat  pork  to  the  end  of  a  line  and 
lowers  it,  with  noiseless  movement,  into  the 
water. 

Then,  when  the  unsuspecting  and  glad- 
So 


FISHING    FOR    "BULL-HEADS" 

dened  "  bull-head  "  swallows  the  pork  down 
to  the  end  of  his  aforementioned  tail,  a  gentle 
"  heave-yo  "  is  made  and  the  surprised  fish 
begins  to  ascend  from  his  turgid  retreat.  The 
flavor  of  the  pork  is  very  dear  to  him,  and 
stubbornness  is  one  of  his  marked  character- 
istics, as  is  also  his  lack  of  perceptive  facul- 
ties— whence  the  name  "  bull-head."  So  he 
hangs  on  to  the  fat  and  is  up  out  of  the  water 
before  he  realizes  the  situation.  A  gentle 
jerk  or  a  moderately  brisk  one  and  the 
smooth  bait  slides  out  of  his  body  and  he 
flops  helplessly  at  the  feet  of  the  fisherman, 
who,  with  appropriate  ghoulish  glee,  takes 
him  gingerly  by  his  tail  and  drops  him  into  a 
convenient  basket. 

And  even  thus  the  armored  and  stubborn 
"  bull-head  "  may  be,  and,  indeed,  is,  circum- 
vented, and  the  weapons  nature  has  provided 
him  with  are  made  useless  by  the  wiles  of  man. 
Therefore  leave  all  fancy  paraphernalia  of 
rod  and  creel,  of  fly-hook  and  landing-net,  of 
bait-can  and  minnow-bucket  at  home  when 
you  go  forth  to  capture  the  unsophisticated 
"  bull-head." 

It  must  not  seriously  be  supposed  that  this 
81 


OUTDOORS 


branch  of  fishing  is  without  its  delights. 
Come  with  me  to  the  old  bridge  now  and  you 
will  see  what  I  mean.  Twilight  is  coming 
on,  and  over  the  hills  the  nighthawks,  long 
and  sharp-pointed  of  wing,  are  moving  with 
jerky,  irregular  flight.  Their  short,  queru- 
lous cry  echoes  constantly  as  they  dart  about 
after  insects  in  the  upper  spaces.  Blackbirds 
are  flying  past  in  long  lines,  and  for  the  most 
part  in  sober  silence.  Robins  are  coming 
home  to  their  roosting-places  in  the  tamarack 
swamp  beyond,  and  after  them  the  turtle- 
doves, drab  meteors  in  flight,  swiftly  follow. 
The  bull-frogs  are  beginning  to  chant,  and 
veiled  shadows  are  forming  thickly  toward 
the  east.  Distant  hills  stand  like  black  monu- 
ments, and  up  from  the  west  comes  the  call 
of  a  whippoorwill. 

Let  us  sit  by  the  centre  of  the  bridge  as  the 
night  comes  on.  Now  the  bats  are  beginning 
to  dodge  about,  and  the  shadows  grow  longer 
and  deeper,  and  the  stars  are  commencing  to 
show  themselves  above  the  trees — some  of 
them  faintly  and  timidly;  others  quite  con- 
fidently and  brightly.  The  birds  are  gone, 
and  a  strange,  gloomily  shimmering  warp 
82 


FISHING    FOR    "  BULL-HEADS  " 

and  woof  of  night  envelops  the  creek  and 
spreads  out  into  the  lake  across  still  waters. 
The  country  road  lies,  a  brownish-gray  streak, 
along  the  bridge  and  on  the  hill  beyond, 
and  there  is  not  the  sound  of  a  wandering 
wheel  to  disturb  the  silence.  Once  in  a 
long  while  there  will  come  the  hardly  heard 
tinkle  of  a  bell,  but  in  the  main  there  is 
only  an  indescribable  lisping  murmur  of 
the  night. 

The  "  bull-heads  "  begin  to  roam  around 
when  night  comes,  and  they  are  partial  to  old 
bridges  like  this.  They  are  found  in  schools 
of  twenty  or  thirty  sometimes,  and  a  basket- 
ful can  be  caught  in  a  short  time.  They  do 
not  seem  to  become  alarmed  by  the  abstract- 
ing of  their  comrades,  and  the  last  one  of  a 
group  of  a  dozen  will  take  a  bait  with  that 
same  trusting  confidence  which  characterized 
the  action  of  the  first  one  to  come  out  of  the 
water.  Sometimes  the  u  bull-heads  "  will  act 
capriciously  and  you  may  not  get  a  bite  for  a 
long  time.  The  "  bite  "  that  the  "  bull-head  " 
gives  is  simply  a  steady  pull  on  the  pork  as 
he  proceeds  to  engulf  it.  When  you  think  he 
has  got  it  down  as  far  as  it  will  go,  hoist  away 

83 


OUTDOORS 


slowly  and  easily.  When  he  comes  out  bring 
him  right  over  the  basket,  if  you  can,  and 
snap  him  off  in  it. 

"Bull-head"  fishing  is  great  "family" 
sport.  Two  or  three  families  can  go  down 
to  an  old  bridge,  where  the  stream  is  too 
shallow  to  drown  the  children  if  they  drop 
in  the  water,  and  have  solid  enjoyment  in  this 
way.  The  men  can  smoke,  and  the  women 
can  gossip;  the  children  can  fish;  and  alto- 
gether, for  a  quiet  little  time  outdoors,  the 
pastime  of  fishing  for  "  bull-heads  "  must  not 
be  despised.  And,  so  far  as  the  fish  are 
concerned,  there  are  no  better  "  pan-fish  "  in 
American  waters. 

And  supposing,  as  it  sometimes  happens, 
that  you  do  not  catch  any  fish;  it  is  pleas- 
ant on  an  old  bridge,  as  night  throws  off 
every  lingering  vestige  of  day  and  rides  the 
heavens  in  sable  splendor.  There  is  a  great 
concourse  of  trailing  night-winds  that  now 
and  again  lift  the  rustling  rushes  and  then 
cease  on  a  floor  of  tranquil  waters.  There  is, 
perhaps,  the  tremulous  cry  of  an  owl  from 
the  woods  and  the  sound  of  whispering 
leaves.  Always,  if  you  will  listen,  there  is 


FISHING    FOR    "BULL-HEADS" 

high  above,  a  sound  as  of  long  waves  in  the 
uttermost  vaults  where  the  pale  stars  lie. 

On  summer  nights  the  signal  stars 

Flash  o'er  a  wide,  wild  waste  of  seas 
The  signal  lights  of  ruddy  Mars, 

Orion  and  the  Pleiades, 
And  down  the  wind  a  murmur  sweeps 

Like  whir  of  wings  in  circling  flights, 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  mystic  deeps 

On  summer  nights. 


ALONG  A  COUNTRY 
ROAD 

THE  dust  is  very  thick  and  white  and 
soft,  like  a  woollen  blanket.  The 
road  is  broad  in  places,  and  espe- 
cially at  the  bottoms  of  the  hills,  or  in  level 
stretches  of  land.  On  the  crests  of  the  hills 
and  in  the  woods  it  narrows  sometimes  to  a 
dusty  streak.  There  is  an  individuality  in  a 
country  road  if  one  takes  the  trouble  to  ob- 
serve. Where  the  road  widens  out  in  the 
sunlight  by  meadows  and  fields  of  grain  it 
seems  to  invite  the  confidence  of  the  traveller. 
The  invitation  is  emphasized  by  hospitable 
clusters  of  blackberries  on  the  way-side  bushes. 
But  in  the  cool,  secluded  depths  of  the  woods, 
where  the  sun's  rays  are  beaten  back  by  shields 
of  oak  and  hickory  foliage,  and  where  the 
hush  is  broken  by  only  an  occasional  bird- 
note,  the  old  road  seems  to  say,  "  I  have  my 
secrets,  too." 

Where  this  road  runs  there  was  an  Indian 
86 


ALONG   A    COUNTRY    ROAD 

trail  many  years  ago.  In  the  timber  next  to 
the  river-bank  the  aborigines  buried  their 
dead  in  branches  of  trees,  with  winds  and 
the  ripple  of  water  to  mourn  for  them.  On 
the  tops  of  these  hills  are  yet  to  be  found 
bowl-shaped  stone  mortars  where  the  Indians 
ground  their  corn  in  early  days. 

They  say  the  ghosts  of  departed  warriors 
travel  this  road,  and  that  on  summer  nights 
ponies  go  by,  dragging  the  poles  on  which 
are  laid  the  "  wickiup  "  and  camp  trappings. 
After  them,  the  warrior  and  squaw  and  silent 
pappoose  go  through  the  deep  woods  down 
and  out  to  the  prairies  beyond.  Always  these 
phantom  caravans  are  going  to  the  west.  But 
where  the  unshod  hoofs  of  ponies  trod,  and 
the  plumes  of  mighty  chiefs  waved,  came  the 
iron  destiny  of  the  white  man,  and  this  trail 
blended  into  a  highway,  while  the  Indian 
faded  as  mist  melts  at  the  touch  of  summer 
sunlight. 

The  river  dips  and  bends  under  high  bluffs 
and  against  low  shores  and  reedy  shallows, 
and  seems  to  be  running  a  race  with  the  white 
ribbon  of  dust  that  stretches  past  over  valley 
and  slope.  The  road  is  a  silent  racer  that 


OUTDOORS 


runs  breathlessly  to  the  great  hills,  noiselessly 
passes  the  woods  and  hollows,  and  leaps  with 
shadowy  flight  to  the  prairies.  Echoless  it 
traverses  all  space  before  it. 

But  the  river  is  singing' as  it  gallops  down 
the  rocky  reaches  and  out  over  pebbled  shal- 
lows, and  its  song  is  as  varied  as  the  never- 
ending  change  of  season  and  circumstance. 
There  is  a  perfect  liquid  babble  of  laughing 
gossip  across  the  shingly  bars,  and  a  whisper- 
ing of  stealthy  secrets  to  the  reeds  along  the 
island  sedges.  Where  the  hills  hang  over  the 
water  there  are  deeper  echoes;  and  a  long 
wash  of  spent  ripples  flows  on  the  steadfast 
barriers  that  sink  their  foundations  in  the  riv- 
er's flow.  There  are  trebles  and  minor  tones 
in  many  keys;  and  now  and  then,  where  a 
town's  steeples  whiten  the  blue  and  the  chim- 
neys of  factories  send  curling  smoke-wreaths 
aloft,  there  is  an  organ  roll  of  prisoned  wa- 
ters— the  roar  of  mill-race  and  sluice-vexed 
currents,  the  fretting  of  the  river  in  its  chains. 

Here  now,  as  we  pass,  is  a  country  post- 
office.  It  is  a  weather-beaten  little  building 
with  a  block  in  front  of  it  to  aid  people  in 
mounting  their  horses,  and  a  long  pole  sup- 
88 


ALONG   A    COUNTRY    ROAD 

ported  by  two  posts  to  hitch  teams  to.  Far 
away  on  the  hills  and  in  the  woods  are  lone 
souls  to  whom  this  dingy  spot  is  Mecca,  and 
hither,  and  especially  on  Saturdays,  they  set 
their  faces  in  hopeful  pilgrimage.  Through 
dusty  lengths  of  uneventful  miles  they  come 
to  test  the  fiat  of  fate — to  see  if  somewhere 
a  hand  has  reached  out  to  open  the  door  of 
solitude.  Among  these  seekers  are  the  aris- 
tocrats of  the  post-office  who  have  their  own 
boxes,  to  which  boxes  the  country  weekly 
comes. 

In  the  wheat-  and  oat-fields  all  day  the 
lights  and  shadows  run  riot.  Ever  since  the 
gray  veil  of  morning  was  brushed  aside, 
and 

"  A  light  wind  blew  from  the  gates  of  the  sun 
And  waves  of  shadow  went  over  the  wheat, — " 

have  these  alternating  cloud-woven  pictures 
flashed  and  faded.  All  day,  while  the  chip- 
ping sparrow  sings  in  fence-corners  and 
clumps  of  hedge,  and  rattling  wheels  stir  up 
powdery  dust,  does  this  panorama  of  the 
winds  and  clouds  pass  on.  The  quail's  clear 
whistle  echoes  gallantly  from  posts  or  top- 


OUTDOORS 


rails,  and  a  warring  hawk  "  chirrs  "  men- 
acingly from  over  the  corn.  The  chink  of 
grasshoppers  sounds  at  intervals,  and  mayhap 
at  the  dead  level  of  noon  a  horn's  mellow 
blast  comes  faintly  across  the  fields.  All 
these  rustic  interludes  come  and  go  and  are 
forgotten.  But  over  the  canvas  of  cloth-of- 
gold,  on  the  wheat,  and  the  lighter  gold  of 
bending  oats,  all  day  the  shadows  chase  the 
sunlight  and  the  sunlight  follows  the  shad- 
ows, and  a  myriad  wind-wrought  landscapes 
are  painted  as  they  pass. 

By  the  bridge  in  the  woods  the  river 
widens  out  into  a  reedy  pool  where  a  single 
water-lily  rests  like  a  snow-flake  on  the  tawny 
waters.  Here  the  reeds  grow  tall  and  thick, 
and  sighing  grasses  echo  of  Pan.  Here  the 
dragon-flies  dart  in  and  out,  and  the  hills 
stand  guard.  And  here  might  Pan  himself 
have  plucked  a  reed  from  the  depths  and  set 
lip  to  the  bruised  stem  to  send  out  a  wail  of 
marshy  music  till  the  listening  earth  had 
cried : 

"  Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan! 
Piercing  sweet  by  the  river, 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan, — " 
90 


ALONG   A    COUNTRY    ROAD 

and  the  ghosts  of  all  the  departed  Naiads 
waited  with  dripping  locks  for  such  dulcet 
clamor  to  cease. 

The  road  through  the  woods  has  all  the 
solemnity  of  an  aisle  of  the  Druids.  There 
is  something  in  an  ancient  oak  which  will 
not  be  dismissed  lightly.  How  many  storms 
have  rocked  this  veteran  to  sleep  in  winter 
stress  and  turmoil?  How  many  suns  have 
shimmered  among  his  leaves  when  summer 
ruled  the  land?  Squirrels  have  played  in  his 
branches  and  the  dove  moaned  through  his 
leaves.  The  stars  have  spangled  the  skies 
above  him,  and  a  thousand  rains  have 
quenched  his  thirsty  roots.  The  moccasin  of 
the  Indian  has  pressed  the  trail  which  led  by 
him,  the  white  man's  footstep  has  followed, 
and  both  are  now  as  the  dust  they  crossed. 
But  the  oak  bides. 

Through  stretches  of  vine-tangled  thicket, 
by  open  meadow  and  fields  of  grain  the  road 
winds.  It  passes  by  pools  where  cows  stand 
knee-deep  in  water  and  blue  flag-lilies  rise  in 
hosts,  each  one  veined  as  delicately  as  a  lady's 
hand.  It  passes  slopes  that  flame  out  in  em- 
broidered banners  of  wild-flowers,  brilliant 


OUTDOORS 


against  thick  grass  which  surrounds  them. 
Here  a  windmill  is  creaking  in  the  summer 
breeze;  there  a  lone  tree  stands  sentinelling 
the  entrance  to  a  pasture.  Occasionally  one 
meets  a  passing  team  and  is  greeted  with  the 
careless  wave  of  the  hand  or  "  good-day," 
the  salutation  to  the  stranger  which  marks  the 
etiquette  of  country  highways.  In  city  streets 
you  meet  the  thousands  and  you  greet  the 
few.  On  the  rustic  thoroughfare,  if  you  are 
to  the  manner  born,  you  will  drive  to  the 
right  and  salute  all  whom  you  pass,  beggar 
or  horseman. 

Of  birds  along  the  road  you  will  see  many. 
The  shy  cat-bird  dives  into  the  bushes  as  you 
go  by  and  complains  of  your  presence.  The 
robin  flies  over  and  blackbirds  scold  and  chat- 
ter in  the  woods.  Meadow-larks  perch  on 
the  fences  and  make  many  preparations  for 
flight  as  you  approach,  before  they  finally  take 
wing  across  adjacent  pastures.  The  golden- 
winged  woodpecker  flits  along  the  road, 
keeping  a  safe  distance  from  you,  and  occa- 
sionally giving  his  piercing  call.  Crows  stalk 
in  the  meadows,  out  of  shot-gun  range,  and 
eye  the  passers-by  warily.  The  jay  dodges 
92 


ALONG   A    COUNTRY    ROAD 

about  in  the  treetops,  and  the  cruel  shrike  or 
"  butcher-bird  "  haunts  hedges  by  the  side  of 
the  road. 

And  when  the  shadows  droop  to  the  hills 
and  the  light  fades  from  the  waters;  when 
the  singing  of  twilight  comes  in  faint-drawn 
chords  of  softest  minors,  then  the  old  road 
takes  on  a  dusky  gray  that  fades  to  brown, 
and  in  near-by  woods  the  line  of  brown  deep- 
ens. All  sounds  of  river-music  have  lapsed 
to  silence,  and  the  harvest-moon  bends  like 
a  bow  in  western  skies.  By  way-side  ponds 
the  frogs  have  already  begun  to  sound  their 
castanets,  and  home-bound  birds  have  gone 
past  swiftly  and  silently  to  the  harboring  nests 
which  awaited  them.  The  hush  of  night 
draws  near.  There  is  only  one  touch  more 
to  close  the  chapter;  one  sound  to  lull  the 
sleepy  birds  and  fill  the  woodland  spaces  with 
drowsy  melody.  And  presently,  as  the  first 
note  of  a  whippoorwill  comes  from  the  more 
remote  thickets,  there  follows  a  medley  of 
jangled  brass,  a  clangorous  and  broken  chorus 
of  bells.  And  in  the  shadows,  followed  by  a 
shadow,  the  cows  come  through  the  reaches 
of  odorous  dust,  and  by  the  bars  as  you  pass 

93 


OUTDOORS 


they  surge  with  a  great  cling-clanging  into  a 
barn-yard  ahead,  and  night  folds  down  a  leaf, 
while  darkness  settles  on  the  country  road. 


94 


WOODCOCK    SHOOTING 

WOODCOCK  shooting  in  most  of 
the  states  is  rapidly  becoming  a 
thing  of  the  past.     Yet  to  those 
few  sportsmen  who  swear  by  it,  this  sport  is 
the  most  fascinating  that  the  gun  affords.   The 
increase  in  drainage  and  the  clearing  away  of 
the  natural  cover,  together  with  injudicious 
game-laws,   is   gradually  putting   an   end  to 
this  branch  of  shooting. 

The  woodcock,  wald-schneppe,  longbill, 
bog-sucker,  timber- doodle,  or  big-headed 
snipe — he  has  various  other  names — is  a  bird 
of  the  night,  a  frequenter  of  thickets  and 
brushy  cover.  He  likes  to  be  as  far  from  the 
madding  crowd  as  he  conveniently  can  get, 
and  hence  he  is  not  so  approachable  and  eas- 
ily found  as  his  half-brother,  the  jack-snipe  of 
the  prairies  and  boggy  pastures.  And  yet  he 
will  plump  down  into  little  spots  of  cover 
very  close  to  the  habitations  of  men,  and  re- 
turn there  year  after  year.  I  have  shot 
woodcock  along  the  rivers  so  close  to  a  main 
95 


OUTDOORS 


travelled  road  that  an  ear  of  corn  might 
have  been  tossed  into  the  place  by  any  pass- 
ing country-man.  They  lurk  in  little  coverts 
around  lakes  in  the  hills  within  gunshot  of 
"  campers  "  and  cottages,  and  only  the  pry- 
ing nose  of  a  good  dog,  or  the  persevering 
efforts  of  a  persistent  hunter  can  rout  them 
out.  It  is  possible  to  shoot  woodcock  with- 
out a  dog,  but  it  is  not  pleasant. 

A  good  pointer  or  setter,  of  course,  can 
find  the  birds  when  they  are  in  the  country, 
and  in  fairly  open  ground  a  man  can  follow 
the  dog  and  shoot  over  "  points "  after  a 
fashion.  But  there  are  places  which  a  man 
cannot  very  well  "beat"  thoroughly — jun- 
gles where  a  dog  can  barely  worm  a  passage 
— and  in  these  almost  impenetrable  tangles 
of  "  pucker  "  brush,  alders,  and  twisted  un- 
dergrowth the  woodcock  is  quite  frequently 
found,  stowed  away  in  the  shadiest  of  moist 
corners — very  seldom  on  the  edges,  but  often 
right  in  the  "  dead  jimp  and  middle  "  of  the 
maze.  There  a  spaniel  is  needed  to  stir  him 
up  and  make  him  fly  over,  around,  or  through 
the  cover.  It  is  true  "  snap  shooting,"  with 
no  time  to  follow  the  bird  or  enter  into  elab- 


WOODCOCK   SHOOTING 

orate  instantaneous  calculations  as  to  where 
to  "  hold."  It  is  just  a  matter  of  throwing 
the  gun  to  the  shoulder  and  firing  at  the  spot 
where  you  think  he  ought  to  be  when  your 
shot  reaches  that  spot — what  might  be  called 
instinctive  marksmanship. 

The  spaniel,  either  a  cocker-  or  a  water- 
spaniel,  is  fitted  for  the  work,  and  will  rum- 
mage around  in  the  brush  and  fairly  nose  the 
bird  into  taking  wing.  I  remember  an  in- 
stance of  a  dog  catching  a  full-grown  wood- 
cock. The  bird  had  started  up  through  the 
thick  brush  and  had  struck  a  twig,  probably, 
and  fallen  back.  The  spaniel  caught  it  by 
one  wing  as  it  rose  the  second  time.  I  heard 
the  first  fluttering,  and  next  the  second  start, 
and  then  a  prolonged  fluttering.  On  break- 
ing through  the  cover  I  found  the  woodcock 
in  the  dog's  mouth,  fast  by  one  wing. 

Let  it  not  be  imagined  for  an  instant  that 
woodcock  shooting  at  any  season  is  parlor- 
sport.  In  the  summer,  in  thick  cover,  a  man 
would  not  need  more  than  a  seal  ring  or  a 
deep  blush  for  his  costume,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  brush  and  briers.  As  it  is,  some  of  the 
hunters  strip  down  to  shoes,  trousers,  and  un- 

97 


OUTDOORS 


dershirt.  The  perspiration  pours  down  from 
you  in  streams.  It  is  a  regular  out-doors 
Turkish  bath,  and  the  work  in  boring  into 
the  dense  thickets,  stumbling  over  fallen  logs, 
and  kicking  through  vines  and  tangled  under- 
brush enlarges  a  man's  vocabulary.  Frank 
Forester's  favorite  sport  was  shooting  "  tim- 
ber-doodles,"  and  New  York  State  was  for- 
merly the  "  happy  hunting-ground  "  for  these 
birds.  In  some  of  the  eastern  and  middle 
states,  together  with  two  or  three  of  the 
southern  states,  fair  woodcock  shooting  can 
still  be  had  in  favored  localities.  In  Canada, 
by  reason  of  greater  attention  to  the  game- 
laws,  the  shooting  has  not  gone  back  so  rap- 
idly as  it  has  in  the  United  States. 

The  flight  of  the  bird  is  eccentric,  swift, 
and  puzzling  to  the  average  shooter.  Some- 
times a  woodcock  rises  straight  up  through 
the  trees;  at  other  times  he  is  up  and  over  a 
clump  of  bushes  like  a  ray  of  light  flashed 
through  a  shutter;  and  again  he  will  rise, 
dodge  around  a  tree,  and  with  one  long, 
quick  swerve,  be  out  of  gunshot.  His  flight 
has  not  the  whir  of  a  quail  or  the  ruffed 
grouse,  nor  the  sudden  start  a  jack-snipe 


WOODCOCK   SHOOTING 

gives.  With  the  woodcock  the  motion  is 
vaguely,  impalpably  swift.  You  see  a  golden- 
brown  streak  in  the  atmosphere  for  the 
briefest  second.  You  see  the  long  bill  and 
hear  the  creaking  whistle.  But  how  sudden- 
ly that  phantom  flight  ceases;  how  short 
a  space  the  picture  hangs  in  the  summer 
air! 

The  woodcock  bores  for  his  food  like  the 
jack-snipe,  and  his  appetite  is  prodigious.  He 
will  eat  his  own  weight  in  angle-worms  in  a 
very  brief  time.  He  loves  the  ground  about 
the  spring-holes  by  a  river-bank,  and  the 
brushy,  soft  spots  around  creeks  where  they 
empty  into  the  rivers.  He  haunts  shaded 
thickets  where  the  ground  is  moist  and  easily 
penetrated  by  his  long  bill.  He  feeds  at 
night,  and  the  places  he  frequents  are  easily 
distinguished  by  his  borings,  which  give  the 
ground  a  pepper-box  appearance  where  he 
has  stalked  about  investigating  the  yielding 
soil.  When  alarmed,  he  is  away  like  a 
shadow  into  thicket  or  adjacent  cover.  He 
is  not  a  bird  of  extended  flight,  but  when 
flushed  darts  into  some  convenient  hiding- 
place  near  at  hand  rather  than  fly  a  consider- 
99 


OUTDOORS 


able  distance,  as  ruffed  grouse  or  quail  will 
fly  when  hunted  persistently. 

In  color  the  woodcock  is  most  richly  plu- 
maged  in  golden  brown,  with  darker  markings 
on  the  back.  His  head  is  round  and  large, 
his  neck  thick,  and  his  bill  is  only  a  trifle 
shorter  than  the  bill  of  the  jack-snipe.  The 
female  is  the  larger  of  the  two.  From  five  to 
seven  ounces  for  a  full-grown  bird  is  fair 
weight,  although  exceptionally  heavy  birds 
are  occasionally  brought  to  bag  which  will 
weigh  eight  ounces  and  over.  The  European 
woodcock  will  run  to  twelve  ounces  and  is 
much  larger  than  his  American  cousin.  A 
true  game-bird,  the  woodcock  has  an  aristo- 
cratic air  about  him.  All  true  game-birds  are 
as  cleanly  put  up  and  handsome  as  blooded 
racers.  Nature  doesn't  build  on  guesswork 
principles. 

In  the  days  of  Lucullus  and  other  Roman 
epicures  the  long-billed  feeders  were  in  great 
demand;  and  as  long  as  the  last  woodcock  is 
alive  he  will  be  relentlessly  hunted.  In  the 
south  many  are  killed  by  fire-hunting  at  night. 
An  iron  basket  is  filled  with  blazing  pitch- 
pine  knots  carried  by  one  man,  while  the 
100 


WOODCOCK   SHOOTING 

other  man  shoots  the  birds  at  short  range 
with  a  sawed-off  shot-gun. 

In  hunting  woodcocks  the  lightest  and 
toughest  kind  of  clothing  is  a  necessity. 
Stout,  light  shoes,  duck  hunting-trousers,  and 
a  coarse-grained  "  hickory "  shirt,  with  a 
linen  handkerchief  in  lieu  of  a  collar,  make 
a  good  combination.  A  peaked  fore-and-aft 
hunting-cap  of  light  duck  or  canvas  is  a  good 
thing  to  keep  twigs  and  bushes  out  of  your 
eyes.  Use  a  belt  to  hold  your  trousers  with. 
In  thick  cover  a  coat,  however  light,  is  too 
hot.  A  dozen  or  so  shells  in  your  pocket  will 
be  enough  ammunition,  and  a  game-carrier  is 
preferable  to  hold  your  birds  instead  of  jam- 
ming them  into  the  pockets  of  a  coat.  Draw 
the  birds  at  once  after  shooting  them,  and  fill 
with  grass.  Keep  them  in  the  open  air  and 
in  the  shade  as  much  as  possible.  The  gun 
should  be  very  light,  cylinder-bored  in  both 
barrels,  and  of  twelve  or  sixteen  gauge.  Use 
smokeless  powder.  Number  eight  or  nine 
shot  is  amply  large.  Don't  forget  to  take  a 
dog  along.  Get  a  spaniel  if  you  can,  and 
if  not,  get  a  pointer  or  a  setter.  A  pointer 
can  stand  the  heat  better  and  a  setter  can 
101 


OUTDOORS 


stand    the    rough    going    best.     Take    your 
choice. 

A  hard  day's  woodcock  shooting,  followed 
by  a  swim  in  the  river,  will  put  an  end  to 
any  case  of  insomnia.  It  is  also  excellent  for 
"  the  blues."  It  is  great  sport,  and  to  some 
men  more  fascinating  than  any  other  branch 
of  field  or  marsh  shooting.  In  the  fall  the 
weather  is,  of  course,  much  cooler,  but  I  do 
not  know  myself  of  any  place  where  good  fall 
woodcock  shooting  can  be  found.  Occasion- 
ally woodcocks  are  shot  while  hunting  quail, 
in  old  orchards  and  wet  cornfields,  and  along- 
side hills  sloping  to  creeks  in  the  timber. 


102 


UNDER    A    GREENWOOD- 
TREE 

NORTHWARD  over  a  long,  sandy 
slope  the  woods  may  be  seen — 
hard  and  soft  maple,  beech,  and 
sycamore;  mostly  hard  maple  and  beech, 
with  a  mere  sprinkling  of  sycamores.  Occa- 
sionally there  is  an  ash-tree.  In  the  pasture 
this  side  of  the  forest  a  glacier  has  left  its 
sign-manual  across  the  hills.  More  ages  than 
a  man  could  guess  have  lapsed  since  that  huge 
mass  came  drifting  down  from  the  north, 
but  even  in  these  days  a  hint  of  its  grinding 
course  is  evident  in  deep  valleys  cut  through 
the  hill-tops,  and  scattered  along  its  path  the 
farmers  have  found  "  float  "  copper,  which 
the  icy  mass  dislodged  and  brought  down  in 
its  powerful  grasp.  The  dense  green  of  the 
woods  stands  firm  against  the  sky,  and  an 
old  rail  fence  hugs  close  to  its  borders.  Far 
above,  a  solitary  crow  crosses,  and  higher 
still  a  buzzard  swings  slanting  pinions  and 
103 


OUTDOORS 


executes  a  masterly  curve  whose  precision  is 
like  that  of  a  wheeling  line  of  perfectly 
trained  infantry.  A  flicker's  golden-brown 
wings  beat  regularly  as  he  flies  over  the 
field,  and  a  blue-jay's  call  comes  queru- 
lously as  we  clamber  over  the  fence  and  enter 
the  forest. 

The  first  thing  that  fixes  the  attention  of  the 
intruder  is  the  sense  of  silence  that  broods 
among  the  squat  trunks  of  the  beeches  and  the 
taller  figures  of  the  other  trees.  The  beech, 
more  than  any  other  tree,  seems  built  on  al- 
most human  lines,  so  smooth  is  its  bark,  so 
graceful  are  its  outlines,  and  so  solid  is  its 
general  appearance.  A  little  way  up  from  the 
ground  its  subsidiary  branches  spring  out,  and 
so  thickly  that  the  growth  is  as  close  as  that 
of  a  bush.  Everywhere  the  limbs  shoot  out, 
heavily  covered  with  lesser  twigs,  and  all  of 
these  are  thronged  with  compact,  dark-green 
leaves,  small  and  pointed.  Birds  seldom  seek 
the  beech-tree,  and  rarely  animals.  So  dense 
is  the  foliage  when  the  branches  start  from 
the  body  of  the  tree  that  it  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  make  any  progress  toward  the  top  of 
the  tree  or  in  any  direction  from  the  trunk. 
104 


UNDER   A    GREENWOOD-TREE 

The  hard  maples  are  among  the  tallest 
and  most  graceful  of  all  trees.  They  grow 
farther  apart  than  the  beeches,  and  do  not 
begin  to  branch  out  until  their  trunks  have 
reached  to  a  considerable  height.  Among  a 
clump  or  group  of  these  trees,  with  the  sun- 
light falling  through  on  their  delicate  leaves 
and  fine  outlines,  there  is  a  sense  of  some  inte- 
rior of  a  vast  cathedral,  so  much  is  the  feeling 
of  arch,  pillar,  dome,  and  fresco  suggested. 

There  is  little  to  be  seen  here  either  of  bird 
or  animal  life.  Sometimes  a  small  red  squir- 
rel, white-bellied,  and  with  eloquent  tail,  will 
scurry  up  a  tree,  pause  on  some  lower  limb, 
curl  his  tail  over  his  back,  sit  up,  eye  you 
curiously,  and  then  unhinge  himself  and  lie 
close  to  the  bark  as  if  to  escape  observation. 
If  you  frighten  him  from  his  perch  or  his 
hold  on  the  bark,  he  will  dart  up  the  tree  like 
a  streak  of  sunlight  and  put  the  tree-trunk 
between  you  and  himself.  He  is  a  very  curi- 
ous little  creature,  and  will  come  back  if  there 
is  an  interval  of  silence,  and  with  inquisitive, 
beady  eyes,  survey  you  until  you  make  another 
movement  that  sends  him  out  of  sight. 

The  sycamores  are  marvellous  shapes 
105 


OUTDOORS 


among  all  this  greenery.  Tall  and  sombre- 
colored  for  perhaps  fifteen  feet  from  the 
ground,  they  begin  to  shed  their  rusty  red- 
dish bark  as  they  climb  higher,  and  soon  ap- 
pear in  a  beautiful  creamy  white  that  shines 
like  marble  among  the  surrounding  trees. 
And  numerous  slender  and  pallid  branches 
are  thrown  out  from  the  main  trunk,  adorned 
with  many  leaves.  The  whole  effect  is  sculpt- 
uresque in  the  highest  sense.  No  splotch  or 
blot  mars  the  marble-like  contour  of  many  of 
these  woodland  Apollos.  They  seem  hardly 
ever  ruffled  by  the  winds  that  sweep  across. 
Birds  flit  in  their  branches  and  along  their 
symmetrical  outlines  the  sunlight  falls,  weav- 
ing many  a  lacelike  bit  of  golden  tapestry 
between  the  shadows  of  the  leaves. 

A  slender,  feminine  quality  is  perceptible 
in  most  of  the  sycamores,  but  occasionally 
some  sturdier  one  stands  like  a  young  Greek 
stripped  for  a  race,  with  arms  outstretched 
and  long  locks  ruffling  in  the  breeze.  There 
is  a  caste  and  distinction  among  forest-trees, 
and  the  sycamore  is  one  of  the  stateliest  and 
most  aristocratic. 

The  lone  ash  stands  like  a  fighter,  its  close- 
106 


UNDER   A   GREENWOOD-TREE 

grown  fibre  telling  of  its  strength.  It  is  not 
so  columnlike  in  its  lines  as  the  beech,  nor  so 
tall  as  the  maple,  nor  anything  like  as  elegant 
as  the  sycamore.  But  the  herculean  power 
is  there,  and  a  certain  suppleness  as  well — 
something  that  tells  of  tough  timber,  of  slow 
growth  and  resolute,  defying  storm  and 
wind,  reliant  and  contained.  Its  roots  dive 
deep  into  the  dark  earth  and  spread  through 
and  under,  gripping  fast  to  the  soil.  The 
lightning  may  fall  on  forest-aisles  and  thun- 
der come  in  the  wake  of  roaring  winds,  but 
the  ash  holds  its  branches  sturdily  to  the 
blasts,  secure  in  the  knowledge  of  its  matted 
foundations.  It  is  the  type  of  constancy 
among  trees,  strong,  pliable,  and  enduring. 
It  is  seldom,  if  ever,  uprooted,  and  nothing 
but  a  lightning-bolt  can  suffice  to  lay  it  low. 
Among  the  other  trees  it  is  almost  a  forest 
Ishmaelite,  for  its  brethren  are  seldom  seen 
among  these  gatherings  of  beech  and  maple 
and  the  lordly  sycamore. 

Of  bird  life  in  these  woods  there  is  not 
one-tenth  the  variety  of  the  southern  and 
middle  southern  woods. 

The  watchful  and  sable-pinioned  crow  is 
107 


OUTDOORS 


here,  and  often  in  quite  large  numbers.  He 
sails  above  the  woods  and  alights  on  the  tops 
of  the  tallest  trees,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  suspicious-looking  characters,  especially 
any  one  with  a  gun.  When  he  nests  he  usu- 
ally does  so  in  a  high  oak  somewhere  along 
the  banks  of  a  river  or  in  places  where  the 
oak-groves  stand.  His  monotonous  cawing 
and  his  black  wings  are  common  enough  in 
these  forests. 

The  woodpeckers — the  golden-winged,  the 
red-headed  woodpecker,  and  the  downy  and 
hairy  woodpecker  —  are  seen  sometimes  on 
the  outskirts  of  woods  such  as  these,  but  sel- 
dom in  their  innermost  depths.  The  red- 
head is  the  only  one  who  ventures  into  the 
inner  sanctuaries,  and  he  is  usually  found 
perched  on  some  lightning-blasted  trunk, 
beating  a  tattoo,  and  at  times  sending  his 
shrill  call  through  the  treetops.  The  golden- 
winged  woodpecker  skirts  the  edges,  flitting 
from  rail  to  rail  of  the  environing  fences  and 
flying  to  the  fields  when  disturbed.  The  other 
members  of  the  woodpecker  family  frequent 
the  scattered  portions  where  trees  grow  far- 
ther apart,  and  here  they  seek  the  dead 
108 


UNDER    A    GREENWOOD-TREE 

trees  to  climb  and  forage  on.  Blackbirds  are 
sometimes  seen  in  flocks,  the  redwinged  and 
the  crow-blackbirds  going  together.  They  go 
into  the  edges  of  the  woods,  and  sometimes, 
where  hard  maples  form  a  grove,  they  will 
fly  in  and  chatter  until  something  scares  them 
away.  The  cuckoo,  or  "  rain-crow/'  as  he  is 
sometimes  termed,  haunts  thickety  portions  of 
the  woods,  the  undergrowth  that  stands  along 
some  portions  of  the  forest.  He  will  not  fly 
at  the  approach  of  an  idler,  but  will  wait  on 
a  fence-post  or  twig  and  eye  the  intruder 
fearlessly. 

Blackberry  vines  and  ferns  are  scattered 
all  through  the  timber,  and  splotches  of  moss 
girdle  the  bottoms  of  tree-trunks.  Sometimes 
a  ruffed  grouse  thunders  up  from  a  covert, 
his  strong  wings  carrying  him  out  of  sight 
quickly.  Rabbits  are  scarce,  but  at  times  a 
brown  body  will  scamper  away  through  the 
brush,  a  white  tail  bobbing  up  and  down  as 
he  goes.  Snakes  do  not  seem  to  frequent  these 
woods  at  all. 

Of'  all  things  that  seem  most  significant  in 
bird  or  animal  life  in  these  gatherings  of 
heavily  foliaged  and  silent  trees  the  turtle- 
109 


OUTDOORS 


dove  or  mourning-dove  comes  first.  Its 
mournful,  melodious  call  comes  sometimes  at 
midday  and  sometimes  in  the  evening.  Al- 
ways it  is  the  essence  of  a  chastened  melan- 
choly, a  saddened  moan  for  the  stillness  that 
wraps  the  forest — "  coo,  coo,  coo ;  coo-ee 
coo."  Sometimes  a  pair  of  them  may  be 
seen  whirling  in  graceful  flight  through  the 
sky,  coming  back  to  their  roosting-places. 

When  twilight  gathers  on  the  hills  and  de- 
scends on  the  woods,  the  dark  vistas  of  the 
forest  gloom  and  gather  their  robes  of 
shadow  about  them  and  wait.  The  stars 
come  out  and  the  moon  rides  by,  and  through 
the  loom  of  night  wriggling  bats  dodge  and 
cross.  The  mink  and  weasel  are  abroad  now, 
and  dozing  owls  have  ruffled  their  feathers 
and  opened  their  large,  unwinking  eyes.  Un- 
der the  moon  and  stars  the  woods  brood,  and 
over  the  leaves  the  whisperings  of  night-winds 
come  softly,  telling  of  darkness  and  the  dis- 
solution of  the  day. 


no 


PAN-FISHING 

IN  the  art  of  "  casting,"  or  the  science 
of  "  still-fishing "  for  game-fishes,  the 
average  woman  or  boy  rarely  becomes 
adept.  In  vacation-time,  when  their  thoughts 
turn  lightly  to  angling,  they  content  them- 
selves with  the  lesser  grades  of  fish  and  the 
more  tranquil  methods  of  capture.  The  sport 
of  "  pan-fishing,"  or  fishing  for  those  partic- 
ular fish  whose  excellencies  shine  brighter  in 
the  frying-pan,  is  a  most  popular  pastime 
about  the  lakes  and  rivers.  It  is  in  vogue 
principally  among  the  ladies  and  small  boys. 
It  is  a  true  art  in  itself,  but  can  easily  be 
made  common  and  ignoble  by  an  inattention 
to  details.  It  is  a  soothing  sport,  entirely  de- 
void of  the  excitement  attending  the  capture 
of  black  bass  or  muskallunge,  and  yet  there 
is  a  gentle  fascination  about  it. 

The  first  fish  in  the  scale  of  excellence  as  a 
pan-fish  is  the  perch  —  the  American  yellow 
perch,  with  a  string  of  local  names  on  his  es- 
cutcheon.    He  sometimes  weighs  as  much  as 
in 


OUTDOORS 


a  pound  and  a  quarter,  and  is  really  a  very 
handsome  fish.  The  small  perch  are  just  as 
eager  to  take  the  hook  as  the  large  ones.  The 
bait  may  be  either  angle-worms  or  a  small 
piece  of  perch  meat  cut  from  a  lately  de- 
ceased perch.  The  perch-meat  bait  is  cleaner 
to  handle  than  worms  and  the  fish  to  take  it 
quite  as  readily.  Perch  are  free  biters,  sel- 
dom dilly-dallying  about  a  bait,  but  just  grab- 
bing it  and  starting  away  for  a  quiet  spot 
wherein  to  enjoy  it.  A  bright  red  "  bobber  " 
adds  to  the  pleasure,  for  in  seeing  the  "  bob- 
ber "  go  under  there  is  a  thrill  of  enjoyment 
which  no  mere  tug  at  a  plain  line  could  ever 
give.  A  blue  or  white  "  bobber "  is  not 
nearly  so  effective.  It  seems  that  blue  and 
white,  and  even  yellow,  blend  too  easily  with 
the  water,  sky,  and  sunlight,  while  the  red 
"  bobber  " — the  true  danger-signal — always 
presents  a  vivid  contrast  to  the  surroundings, 
and  any  motion  on  its  part  is  immediately  ap- 
parent to  the  angler. 

The  grass  bass,  sometimes  called  the  calico 

bass,  red-eyed  bass,  and  goggle-eyed  perch,  is 

found  in  the  same  places  frequented  by  the 

yellow  perch,  and  he  is  a  very  easy  fish  to 

112 


PAN-FISHING 


land  when  hooked.  Blue-gilled  sunfish  and 
the  common  sunfish  also  haunt  the  spots  where 
perch  are  found,  and  are  susceptible  to  the 
same  temptations,  as  regards  angle-worms  and 
fresh-cut  perch  meat. 

Fishing  for  pan-fish  is  very  good  sport  if 
properly  managed.  In  the  first  place  a  spick- 
span  clean  boat  should  be  selected,  one  that  is 
clinker-built,  wide,  and  not  easily  tipped.  Get 
the  prettiest  girl  possible  to  go  with  you.  Let 
her  do  all  the  fishing.  It  will  keep  you  busy 
attending  to  baiting  the  hook,  taking  off  the 
fish,  stringing  them,  cutting  bait,  and  keeping 
up  a  running  comment  of  airy  persiflage.  A 
girl  who  is  not  indifferent  to  the  joys  of  yank- 
ing out  the  toothsome  and  inoffensive  pan- 
fish  is  the  kind  you  want — one  who  is  enthusi- 
astic about  clouds,  landscape,  the  ripples  over 
the  surface  of  the  lake,  and  the  hornless  cattle 
grazing  on  distant  slopes.  Beware  of  a  blase 
girl.  Nothing  is  worse,  excepting  the  blase 
man. 

The  particular  nooks  where  pan-fish  hide 
are  along  the  shores  of  lakes  in  the  lake  re- 
gion, and  around  bulrush-beds  they  can  gen- 
erally be  found  all  in  a  democratic  gathering 


OUTDOORS 


— yellow  perch,  sunfish,  bluegills,  goggle-eyes, 
and  occasionally  the  crappies.  Each  one  is 
patiently  waiting  to  be  lifted  out  of  his  ele- 
ment to  adorn  a  "  stringer."  A  word  as  to 
the  stringer.  Get  a  steel  chain  stringer  and 
never  trust  a  cord  or  fish-line,  however  stout. 
For  in  your  overweening  pride  you  may  find 
occasion  to  "  hist  "  the  string  up  to  show  it 
to  some  one  and  the  string  may  break  and 
sow  your  fishes  broadcast  back  into  the  depths 
of  the  lake  again.  This  often  happens.  With 
a  wire  chain  stringer  or  a  steel  chain  stringer 
you  can  do  this  display  business  with  the  ut- 
most impunity. 

One  of  the  beauties  about  pan-fishing  is 
that  the  biggest  fish  do  not  get  away  —  at 
least,  not  permanently.  If  you  inadvertently 
lose  a  fish,  bait  up  again  and  try  him  once 
more.  A  perch  will  munch  and  munch  until 
all  is  gone  and  then  return  to  the  charge 
as  often  as  bait  is  renewed.  The  bluegills 
and  the  rest  of  the  crowd  all  follow  suit,  and 
when  a  crowd  of  pan-fish  begin  to  take  the 
hook  they  bite  fast  and  furiously.  The  small 
hooks  used  enable  the  anglers  to  put  back 
into  the  water  unharmed  all  the  smaller  fish. 
114 


PAN-FISHING 


It  is  not  every  day  that  a  good  catch  of  pan- 
fish  can  be  made.  The  wind  and  the  weather 
must  be  right.  When  the  sun  falls  blindingly 
on  level  stretches  of  water  which  is  un- 
wrinkled  by  a  solitary  ripple,  except  when  a 
turtle's  head  is  thrust  above  the  surface,  then 
the  pan-fish  get  lazy  and  seem  to  lose  their 
appetites.  They  drop  down  to  the  cooler 
depths  of  the  lake  and  look  listlessly  at  the 
dangling  bits  of  perch  meat,  and  eye  askance 
the  wriggling  and  ruddy-hued  angle-worms. 
It  is  too  hot ;  too  still.  The  lazy  cattle  stand 
motionless  on  the  hill-sides  and  birds  seek  the 
coolest  recesses  in  the  woods.  It  is  not  the 
time  to  fish.  But  when  the  morning  breaks 
in  a  web  of  cloudy  streaks,  and  a  wind  comes 
from  the  south,  rippling  the  water  into  a 
maze  of  gray  wrinkles,  then  dig  your  worms 
and  get  ready  for  the  fray.  Cloudy  days  are 
the  days  to  fish  in.  In  open  spaces  among 
the  bulrushes,  where  the  water  is  about  five 
or  six  feet  deep,  is  a  good  place  to  anchor 
the  boat. 

The  spectacle  of  some  women  fishing  for 
the  first  time  is  a  sight  worth  a  day's  journey 
to  witness.  The  fair  angler  pities  the  fish 


OUTDOORS 


she  catches  and  execrates  the  ones  that  wrig- 
gle off  the  hook  and  slide  back  into  the  water 
again.  She  smoothes  back  the  locks  of 
hair  that  the  impudent  wind  has  disarranged, 
and  carefully  tucks  them  away  with  the  aid 
of  the  ever-mysterious,  ever-present  hair-pin. 
She  takes  care  occasionally  that  her  hat  is  on 
straight,  and  fishes  in  a  bewilderingly  attrac- 
tive costume  that  ought  to  reconcile  the  fish 
to  their  fate.  Her  exclamations  are  many  and 
varied,  and  her  good-humor  is  intensified  with 
each  fresh  capture. 

The  proverbial  patience  of  women  is  not  at 
its  best  in  angling.  Where  a  down-trodden 
worm  of  a  man  will  sit  meekly  for  hours 
glaring  at  a  cork,  a  woman  will  lift  the  bait 
twenty  times  in  half  an  hour  to  see  if  there 
was  not  a  nibble.  She  is  impatience  itself  if 
the  fish  do  not  exert  themselves  to  bite,  and 
she  rapidly  gets  disgusted  if  they  quit  biting 
after  having  started  in  with  promising  sud- 
denness. If  she  is  of  a  dreamy,  poetic  nature 
she  will  be  calling  attention  to  some  lovely 
bit  of  color  in  the  west  or  north  at  critical 
moments  when  sturdy  perch  or  obtrusive 
bluegill  have  gone  down  with  the  cork. 
116 


PAN-FISHING 


When  she  recovers  her  angling  instinct  the 
bait  is  all  gone,  and  she  will  straightway  for- 
get the  glory  of  the  shore  and  sky  in  lament- 
ing the  perfidy  of  the  fish  that  got  away.  She 
enjoys  the  sport  as  you  used  to  when  you  were 
a  boy. 

A  cloudy  day,  and  one  when  the  wind  is 
blowing  from  the  south  or  south-west,  and 
with  occasional  lapses  of  sunlight  through 
the  shadows,  is  a  typical  fishing  day.  There 
is  a  seclusion  to  such  days  that  full-lighted 
days  do  not  possess.  The  wind  writes  liquid 
messages  on  the  surface  of  the  lake  that  fade 
in  the  writing  and  sink  swiftly  into  shadow, 
like  the  names  of  all  the  long-forgotten  dead. 
The  sun  strikes  seldom  through  the  barriers 
of  trailing  cloud,  but  when  striking  his  flashes 
are  as  sword-cuts  with  a  jewel-hilted  blade. 
The  birds  do  not  sing  and  only  at  long  inter- 
vals is  their  flight  marked  from  the  gently 
rocking  skiff.  The  hills  are  like  huge, 
crouching  mammoths,  shaggy  with  forest  and 
thicket,  and  buried  in  a  century-old  repose. 
The  shadows  rule,  and  the  wind  is  as  rollick- 
ing as  a  boy  on  his  summer  holiday. 

Pan-fish  are  very  good  eating,  some  people 
117 


OUTDOORS 


preferring  them  to  the  more  generally  es- 
teemed black  bass.  They  should  be  rolled  in 
cornmeal  and  fried.  When  they  are  rather 
small,  if  fried  crisply  they  can  be  taken  in  the 
fingers  and  eaten  —  bones,  fins,  and  tails  — 
everything  but  heads — with  a  relish.  At  the 
ordinary  camp,  where  a  change  of  diet  from 
canned  goods  is  a  source  of  great  delight,  a 
skilful  pan-fisherman  is  looked  up  to  with 
something  bordering  on  reverence.  He  it  is 
who  leads  the  campers  out  of  the  wilderness 
of  baked  beans  with  tabasco  sauce  and  canned 
buckwheat-cakes. 

Pan-fishing  is  the  true  Waltonian  style  of 
angling,  minus  the  charm  of  absolute  quiet, 
the  repose  "  which  marks  the  caste  of  Vere 
de-Vere."  This  infraction  of  silence  is  fur- 
nished by  the  lady  who  is  doing  the  fishing. 
Do  not  wince  if  she  thinks  that  a  passing 
kingfisher  is  a  jaybird,  or  that  a  turtle's  head 
bobbing  up  a  few  yards  away  is  a  snake. 
Leave  her  to  those  broad  generalizations  of 
outdoors  which  make  up  in  enthusiasm  what 
they  lack  in  accuracy.  And  be  very  proud 
and  glad  to  think  that  she  has  this  sense  of 
fresh  enjoyment  in  the  sport  that  you  once 
118 


PAN-FISHING 


had  yourself  in  the  old,  old  days — days  when 
you  set  your  "  bobber  "  afloat  by  a  certain 
bridge  across  a  certain  creek  so  long  ago 
that  it  makes  your  eyes  misty  to  try  and  see 
across  the  years  and  find  the  place. 


119 


A    NORTHERN    NIGHT- 
INGALE 

HOW  many  years  ago  the  cat-bird  re- 
ceived his  name  history  does  not 
exactly  record.  But  it  was  all  on 
account  of  his  scolding,  mewling  cry  when 
disturbed  in  the  thickets  where  his  nest  was 
built.  Just  so  soon  as  an  intruder's  footstep 
came  near  his  retreat  he  was  out  and  com- 
plaining about  it.  It  did  not  matter  whether 
the  stranger  was  merely  a  curious  observer, 
anxious  to  study  the  habits  and  peculiarities 
of  the  slate-colored  songster,  or  a  prowling 
boy  intent  on  robbing  nests.  The  presence  of 
the  disturbing  element  of  man  was  enough, 
and  the  bird's  feline  protestations  gave  him 
the  name  which  has  clung  to  him  ever  since. 
And  a  very  misleading  and  inappropriate 
cognomen  it  is,  too.  The  cat-bird  is  of  the 
mocking-thrush  family,  and  enjoys  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  full  first  cousin  to  the  mock- 
ing-bird, and  is  himself  a  mimic  of  no  little 
120 


A   NORTHERN    NIGHTINGALE 

power.  His  aversion  to  singing  in  public  is 
well  known  to  his  admirers,  although  he  can 
never  be  said  to  be  without  his  notes.  In 
some  of  the  earliest  "  Hoosier  "  dialect  ever 
written,  Edward  Eggleston  celebrates  this 
peculiarity  as  follows: 

"  The  cat-bird  poorty  nigh  splits  his  throat 

Ef  nobody's  thar  to  see; 
The  cat-bird  poorty  nigh  splits  his  throat, 
But  ef  I  says :  *  Sing  out,  green  coat,' 

'Why,  I  can't,  and  I  shan't,'  says  he." 

But  in  the  throat  of  this  most  modestly  plu- 
maged  bird  there  is  a  perfect  marvel  of  mel- 
ody, and  when  the  spirit  moves  him,  and  then 
only,  does  he  sing.  What  a  pity  that  some 
of  the  poets  do  not  wait  for  their  inspiration 
like  the  cat-bird! 

The  cat-bird  is  a  brush-bird,  a  frequenter 
of  bushes  and  thickets.  Not  for  him  the 
lofty  perch  of  the  robin,  the  tip-tilting  pose 
of  the  golden-winged  woodpecker,  the  far 
flight  of  the  blackbird.  Like  a  true-hearted 
minstrel  he  is  a  modest  singer  who  seeks  in 
shady  retirement  a  spot  to  pour  out  his  music. 
While  the  bobolink  spills  bubbles  of  joy  in 
the  midst  of  sun-thrilled  days  the  cat-bird 
121 


OUTDOORS 


hides  in  deepest  copses  and  builds  his  coarse 
nest  gossiping  between  times  with  his  mate. 
He  is  chary  of  his  song,  as  if  he  knew  its 
worth  and  matchless  melody.  The  robin 
flutes  in  the  elms  when  the  sun's  rays  wheel 
slantingly  toward  the  west,  and  after  the  rain 
the  brown  thrush  sings  from  a  treetop,  but 
only  rarely,  in  my  experience,  does  a  cat- 
bird choose  the  daytime  for  his  gift  of  song. 
Possibly  he  listens,  for  he  has  the  notes  of 
many  a  morning  and  evening  songster  in  his 
repertoire. 

His  coat  is  of  a  subdued  tint,  as  betokens 
the  rarest  vocalists  of  the  woods  and  fields. 
It  is  true  that  the  red-bird,  brilliant  in  color 
as  a  torch  at  midnight,  sings  sweetly.  And 
the  orioles,  with  their  orange  and  black  and 
other  bright  diversities  of  plumage,  are  sing- 
ers in  the  true  sense,  but  not  such  lyrists  as 
the  cat-bird  and  the  mocking-bird.  How 
quietly  has  nature  robed  her  chief  favorites — 
the  cat-bird,  the  mocking-bird,  the  thrushes, 
the  song-sparrow,  and  the  robin.  The  lone 
exception  among  the  birds  whose  songs  rank 
highest  is  that  saucy  harlequin,  the  bobolink, 
for  the  tanager  and  the  oriole,  sweet  as  their 
122 


A    NORTHERN    NIGHTINGALE 

songs  are,  belong  to  the  lesser  chorus  of  the 
fields.  How  the  gaudy  and  impudent  jay 
suffers  in  comparison  with  such  a  bird  as  the 
cat-bird ! 

When  the  leaves  go,  and  gray  winds  of  the 
north  smite  hard  on  branch  and  thicket  and 
the  snows  sift  over  valley  and  meadow,  the 
cat-bird  spreads  his  wings  and  disappears. 
The  loss  of  summer's  young  delights  he  never 
knows,  for  with  the  fading  of  the  season  his 
tarrying  time  has  passed.  The  ice-bound 
pools,  the  empty  nest  and  naked  branches,  the 
thickets  piled  with  glittering  drifts,  come 
after  he  has  migrated.  In  happier  valleys, 
where  the  sunlight  comes  in  a  yellow  flood  to 
grassy  hills;  where  the  fire  of  summer  has 
again  been  kindled  and  mild  winds  blow  in 
secluded  woodland  aisles,  the  cat-bird  finds 
the  season  that  departed  from  the  north.  Let 
the  world's  worn  axle  turn  as  it  may,  the  cat- 
bird's flight  will  follow  the  sun,  however  the 
jay  and  crow  stay  on  to  brave  out  the  eager 
and  nipping  airs. 

But  as  the  earth  turns  so  does  the  bird's 
instinct  swerve  to  the  northern  hills.  Over 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  with  the  other  north- 
123 


OUTDOORS 


bound  wayfarers,  he  comes.  The  thickets 
where  he  hid  and  chattered  welcome  him 
again,  and  again  the  cat-bird  builds  his  nest 
in  the  bushes  and  watches  his  fledglings 
through  the  long,  warm  days,  while  grass 
grows  underfoot  and  the  sun  shines  overhead. 
And  when  night  comes,  when  the  west  is  a 
full-blown  rose  and  the  valleys  and  slopes 
take  on  nunlike  folds  of  twilight  and  deeper 
darkness,  comes  the  cat-bird's  matin  time. 
His  most  beautiful  song  is  of  the  night.  And 
if  ever  a  bird  had  a  soul,  some  subtle  trace 
of  sensibility  to  stars  and  moon,  and  the  tide 
of  summer  languor,  surely  this  bird  has. 

Where  we  used  to  fish  at  a  little  lake 
locked  in  by  the  hills,  there  was  a  cat-bird  that 
made  his  nest  in  a  thicket  in  the  orchard. 
Sometimes  he  would  come  at  midnight  to  a 
cedar-tree  close  to  the  house  and  sing.  We 
never  saw  him  come  to  the  tree,  but  we  heard 
him  sing  several  times  in  the  moonlight.  At 
about  twelve  o'clock  he  would  begin,  and  the 
song  would  continue  for  possibly  twenty  min- 
utes, with  some  short  intervals  of  silence. 
He  never  came  except  on  clear  nights,  and 
the  cedar  where  he  sang  stood  dense  and 
124 


A   NORTHERN    NIGHTINGALE 

black  at  the  orchard's  edge.  Those  of  us 
who  had  heard  the  mocking-bird  in  Missis- 
sippi forests  and  Floridian  hammocks,  and 
the  hermit-thrushes  on  eastern  hills,  decided 
that  the  singing  of  this  cat-bird  surpassed  in 
sweetness  both  northern  and  southern  wood- 
vocalists.  After  all,  is  not  moonlight  the  time 
for  music?  And  the  song  of  this  northern 
nightingale  seemed  to  us  the  poetry  of  bird- 
music,  the  lyric  voicing  of  winds  and  waters 
trembling  up  into  the  moonlight,  and  softened 
and  saddened  by  the  night. 

We  were  certainly  an  appreciative  audi- 
ence. Whatever  the  boys  were  doing, 
whether  playing  cards,  oiling  up  reels,  wind- 
ing new  lines,  or  telling  fish-stories,  the  word 
that  the  cat-bird  had  begun  to  sing  was  the 
cue  for  an  adjournment  to  the  side  porch.  It 
was  very  still  out  there.  The  moon  at  that 
time  of  the  night  would  be  rolling  high  and 
free  from  trailing  clouds.  The  bird  seemed 
to  prefer  those  nights  when  only  occasional 
gusts  of  wind  stirred  the  apple-trees,  the  cot- 
ton-woods, and  the  tufted  cedar.  There  was 
no  other  house  for  miles  and  the  loneliness 
was  emphasized  by  the  near-by  presence  of 
125 


OUTDOORS 


the  heavy  timber  which  skirted  the  lake.  The 
song  was  clear,  voluble,  and  very  sweet,  hav- 
ing in  some  portions  of  it  notes  of  other 
birds.  Its  own  proper  song  was  its  rarest 
quality,  apart  from  the  imitations  or  mock- 
ings  of  the  common  songsters  of  the  fields. 
There  was  a  mellowness  in  these  notes,  a  liq- 
uid quality,  which  came  like  little  cascades  in 
a  mountain-brook.  Sometimes  it  would  seem 
as  if  the  bird  were  in  an  ecstasy  of  happiness, 
and  then  there  would  be  a  tone  of  sorrow 
which  would  broaden  into  an  interlude  of 
pain,  and  this  again  would  change  and  soar 
into  a  triumphal  passage  of  bubbling  music 
till  the  cedar  rang  with  the  melody. 

Some  miserable  vandals  destroyed  his  nest 
and  killed  his  mate  maybe,  for  the  boys 
found  the  torn  nest  and  the  broken  eggs  at 
the  side  of  the  road  the  day  before  we  left. 
But  on  that  beautiful  moonlight  night  the 
bird  came  to  the  cedar-tree  and  gave  us  a 
farewell  burst  of  the  finest  bird  -  music 
possible. 

The  cat-bird  sang  in  the  cedar-tree, 

Where  the  argent  flood  of  a  midnight  moon 

Poured  down  as  a  river  flowing  free, 

All  white  and  bright  as  the  light  of  noon, 
126 


A    NORTHERN    NIGHTINGALE 

And  the  dusky  depths  of  the  cedar  thrilled 

As  the  echoing  music  rose  and  rang, 
And  the  clouds  bent  down  and  their  dews  distilled 

Like  tears  of  joy,  while  the  cat-bird  sang. 

The  cat-bird  sang  in  the  cedar-tree, 

And  never  a  wave  of  breezes  fleet 
O'er  apple-blossoms,  or  minor  key 

Of  flowing  water,  was  half  so  sweet; 
And  the  winds  were  hushed  by  his  matchless  song, 

And  the  dumb  trees  sighed  'neath  the  moonlight  pale, 
While  the  shadows  came  in  a  muffled  throng 

To  hark  to  the  northern  nightingale. 

So  blest,  so  curst  by  the  touch  of  fate; 

Give  note,  though  thy  nest  no  longer  be, 
Or  if  thou  wander  and  find  no  mate, 

And  sing  alone  in  the  cedar-tree. 
Aye!  tell  thy  pain  to  the  night  forlorn, 

Sing  on,  sing  on,  lest  thy  heart  should  break, 
For  the  breasts  of  those  shall  press  the  thorn 

Who  live  for  naught  but  the  song's  own  sake. 


127 


SQUIRREL    SHOOTING 

ALONG  in  the  early  summer  the 
squirrel  families  are  bringing  their 
young  hopefuls  into  sylvan  society, 
and  man,  base  man,  with  a  palate  tickling  with 
anticipations  of  squirrel-pie,  is  preparing  for 
the  woods.  East  and  west,  north  and  south, 
the  squirrels  are  found,  and  the  earliest  expe- 
riences with  the  gun  for  most  boys  is  in  the 
line  of  squirrel-hunting.  Gray  squirrels,  fox- 
squirrels,  black  squirrels,  and  red  squirrels, 
they  are  found  from  the  Lakes  to  the  Gulf  and 
from  Maine  to  California,  and  in  their  pur- 
suit wood-craft  is  a  prime  essential  to  success. 

The  novice  may  go  through  the  woods  and 
over  the  hills  and  never  see  a  sign  of  game. 
His  dog  may  chase  rabbits  or  hunt  moles  and 
mice,  or  if  he  is  a  dog  that  is  posted,  he  may 
tree  a  squirrel  which  the  "  tender-foot "  can- 
not find. 

But  after  the  greenhorn  may  come  the  ex- 
perienced hunter,  who  has  followed  the  sport 
128 


SQUIRREL    SHOOTING 


from  boyhood,  and  then  there  is  a  different 
tale  to  tell.  To  be  successful  in  this  sport  re- 
quires a  keen  eye  and  patience,  some  little 
wood-craft  and  out-door  knowledge.  The 
woods  in  June  are  dense  with  foliage.  Every 
tree  is  a  mass  of  emerald,  and  when  the  wind 
blows,  the  boughs  and  branches  wave  and  in- 
termingle in  a  blending  of  dark  and  light 
green.  It  is  very  hard  then  to  distinguish  the 
movements  of  so  small  an  animal  as  a  squir- 
rel. And  the  squirrel  is  a  crafty  little  cus- 
tomer, too.  Well  he  knows  where  the  hol- 
low trees  are,  and  the  holes  in  them  as  well. 
And  when  there  are  strange  noises  in  the 
woods  the  fox-squirrel  furls  his  red  and 
feathery  tail  close  to  his  sides  and  glues  him- 
self to  the  side  of  a  tree  until  he  is  flattened 
out  like  a  postage-stamp.  And  there  he 
clings  until  all  sound  has  ceased  excepting  the 
tattoo  of  the  red-headed  woodpecker  on  the 
dead  limbs  or  the  petulant  cry  of  the  uneasy 
blue-jay.  The  sounds  that  first  startled  him 
may  have  been  the  careless  steps  of  a  "  ten- 
der-foot "  squirrel-hunter,  thrashing  steadily 
through  the  woods,  looking  up  into  all  sorts 
of  trees,  big  and  little,  and  wondering  why  he 
129 


OUTDOORS 


doesn't  see  a  cluster  of  squirrels  on  every 
other  branch.  He  is  very  likely  to  be  a  reck- 
less fellow  with  a  gun  and  the  song-birds  are 
apt  to  suffer  as  he  goes  along. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps dies  away  and  the  sharp-eyed  fox-squir- 
rel holds  to  the  bark  and  listens,  and  all  is 
apparently  safe  again.  A  crow  flying  over 
sends  out  his  challenge  of  "  caw,  caw,"  in  an 
impudently  assertive  manner,  and  the  downy 
woodpecker  busies  himself  on  the  very  tree 
on  which  the  squirrel  is  fastened.  There  is 
a  faint  breeze  stirring,  and  the  broad  green 
leaves  of  oaks  move  softly  and  waver  be- 
tween shade  and  shine.  The  peril  seems 
over.  Now,  the  squirrel,  at  the  first  echo  of 
approaching  steps,  runs  around  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  tree  and  clings  there.  Conse- 
quently his  line  of  vision  is  limited.  If  he 
could  look  around  the  tree  or  through  it  he 
would  see  a  wily  man,  an  experienced  hunter, 
watching  for  squirrels.  This  man  has  come 
up  the  slope  and  has  noticed  a  number  of 
fine  oaks  scattered  about  here  and  there,  with 
occasional  logs  and  stumps  in  different  places 
on  the  hill.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  away  is  the 
130 


SQUIRREL    SHOOTING 


lake.  Its  blue  waters  are  visible  through  the 
trees  to  the  right.  Down  the  slope,  at  the 
very  bottom,  is  a  narrow  pond  with  a  brushy 
covert  on  two  sides  and  open  on  its  other 
banks.  It  is  shallow  but  clear.  There  are 
frogs  around  the  shores  and  possibly  a  wood- 
cock in  the  brush  at  its  edges.  At  any  rate, 
it  would  be  a  good  place  for  squirrels  to  slip 
down  and  drink  out  of,  and  the  timber  cer- 
tainly looks  favorable.  "  Mr."  man  resolves 
to  wait,  not  for  a  minute,  nor  for  five  min- 
utes, but  for  an  hour  or  so  if  necessary. 

There  are  no  squirrels  in  sight,  it  is  true, 
but  there  is  much  to  observe  and  enjoy.  For 
instance,  there  is  the  fresh  greenwood  charm 
of  forest-aisle  and  grassy  stretch  of  hill-side, 
the  companionship  of  birds,  and  the  search- 
ing rays  of  sunlight  peeping  down  through 
lattices  of  leaves. 

"Under  the  greenwood-tree, 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me?" 

There  is  the  call  of  the  sable  crow,  the 
blue-jay's  noisy  clatter,  the  querulous  note  of 
the  red-headed  woodpecker,  the  long-drawn- 
out,  chattering  call  of  the  "  flicker "  or 


OUTDOORS 


golden-winged  woodpecker,  and  the  clack  of 
passing  flocks  of  blackbirds.  There  is  also 
a  nervous  little  nuthatch  bobbing  around  on 
that  big  oak  yonder,  gradually  zigzagging  up 
the  trunk  and  —  softly,  softly,  what  is  that 
dark  spot  edging  cautiously  over  the  top  of 
that  third  limb  of  the  oak? 

It  is  a  squirrel,  by  all  that  is  lucky.  He 
has  become  emboldened  by  the  security  of 
sylvan  bustle  into  doing  a  little  peeping  on 
his  own  account.  That  small  spot  is  his 
nose.  The  observant  hunter  has  immediately 
noticed  this,  but  he  has  not  moved  an  inch ;  has 
not  "  batted  "  an  eye  or  twitched  an  eyelash. 
He  has  seen  the  inquisitive  nose  of  the  squir- 
rel and  waits,  statuelike,  for  further  pro- 
ceedings. Presently  the  squirrel's  head  comes 
over  the  limb  and  then  his  body  follows. 
Then  he  springs  to  another  bough  and  goes 
around  the  tree  again.  Instantly  the  hunter 
raises  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder,  aims  a  little 
above  where  the  squirrel  has  disappeared, 
and  again  awaits  developments.  He  has  not 
long  to  wait.  Over  another  limb  the  little 
animal  gambols,  now  feeling  quite  secure 
from  any  foes.  Something  causes  a  momen- 
132 


SQUIRREL    SHOOTING 


tary  pause  and  the  squirrel  halts  for  an  in- 
stant on  a  limb  half-way  to  the  top  of  the 
tree. 

Then  the  crack  of  a  rifle,  spiteful  and  short, 
sounds  in  the  woods,  and  a  twenty-two-calibre 
bullet  has  whizzed  through  the  squirrel's 
head.  Death  is  instantaneous  and  probably 
painless,  and  the  nimble  forager  of  the  woods 
drops  plummet-like  to  the  ground  below. 
The  hunter  slips  another  cartridge  into  the 
breech  of  his  gun  and  waits  a  few  minutes 
before  going  forward.  Sometimes  there  are 
two  squirrels  playing  about  together,  and  the 
other  one  may  show  itself,  looking  for  its 
comrade.  If  there  is  no  sound  the  hunter 
presently  moves  up  and  takes  his  game, 
smooths  the  broad  bushy  tail  out,  and  care- 
fully tucks  the  squirrel  away  in  the  back  of 
his  hunting-coat.  Then  he  shifts  his  position, 
say  fifty  yards  or  so,  to  another  part  of  the 
grove,  selects  a  likely  looking  place  near  some 
old  logs  under  a  clump  of  fine  oak,  and  sits 
down  on  a  convenient  stump. 

The  day  dozes  and  drowses  over  cloud- 
vistas  and  across  masses  of  emerald  foliage, 
but  the  sun  finds  few  chinks  to  sift  through 
133 


OUTDOORS 


his  golden  light  to  the  mossy  depths  of  the 
woods.  The  hunter  sits  motionless  on  a 
stump,  his  eyes  scanning  the  tree-trunks  and 
branches,  the  logs  and  slopes  and  timbered 
hills  beyond.  Suddenly  a  squirrel  appears  on 
a  log  some  forty  yards  or  more  distant  from 
where  he  is  sitting.  This  squirrel  is  entirely 
unsuspecting.  He  has  probably  come  some 
distance  through  the  woods  and  evidently  has 
not  heard  or  seen  anything  suspicious.  His 
back  is  to  the  hunter  and  he  switches  his  tail 
to  one  side  and  cocks  his  head  up  saucily. 
The  little  rifle  is  raised  quickly,  again  the  bul- 
let speeds  through  the  air  and  the  second 
squirrel  drops  from  the  log,  stone-dead. 
Again  there  is  a  pause,  and  then  the  game  is 
picked  up  and  all  is  still  again. 

The  woods  first,  and  next  the  rifle-ranges, 
have  made  Americans  a  nation  of  sharp-shoot- 
ers. For  squirrel-hunting  any  one  of  a  dozen 
American  rifles,  repeaters,  or  single-shots  of 
twenty-two-calibre  will  give  entire  satisfac- 
tion. For  myself  I  prefer  a  single-shot  rifle, 
as  it  conduces  to  more  care  in  shooting  and  a 
consequent  tendency  to  greater  accuracy.  For 
dress,  stout  shoes,  hob-nailed,  so  as  not  to 
134 


SQUIRREL    SHOOTING 


slip  on  the  grass,  duck  trousers,  negligee  shirt, 
the  lightest  possible  duck  hunting-coat,  and  a 
straw  hat.  Go  thinly  clad  for  this  summer 
shooting. 

You  will  find  much  that  is  lovely  in  the 
summer  woods  —  wonders  of  yellow  lace 
woven  on  the  grass  by  the  wandering  sun, 
the  flight  of  birds  and  their  calls,  the  shim- 
mer of  far  waters,  the  breath  of  winds,  the 
sense  of  peace  and  beauty.  And  you  will  not 
wonder  that  in  olden  days  the  Druids  wor- 
shipped 

"  Those  green-robed  senators  of  mighty  woods — 
Tall  oaks  branch-charmed  by  the  earnest  stars." 


135 


DOWN    THE    ST.   JOE 
RIVER 

THE  St.  Joe  River  is  one  of  the  most 
winding  streams  in  the  world.  Its 
tortuous  course  flows  through  high- 
lands and  lowlands,  now  with  steep  banks 
overhanging  the  water,  now  with  shelving 
banks  of  sand  dotted  with  mussel  shells. 
Springs  rise  along  its  shores  and  creep  lazily 
to  the  river,  there  to  mingle  with  the  current, 
and  along  the  timber-line  higher  up  the  crows 
fly  past.  Shallows  follow  on  the  paths  of 
deep  pools  where  black  bass  lie,  and  swal- 
lows dip  and  cross  above  the  river's  surface. 
Blackbirds  linger  along  the  shores,  sometimes 
among  roots  of  trees  at  the  water's  edge  and 
at  other  times  whistling  from  maples  and 
sycamores  in  the  low  grounds.  Beech-trees, 
sturdy  of  stature  and  compact  of  texture,  rise 
on  the  slopes  and  oaks  grow  on  hills  higher 
up.  There  is  an  infinite  variety  of  scenery 
where  the  river  weaves  in  and  out  of  the  hills, 

136 


DOWN    THE    ST.    JOE    RIVER 

and  sun  and  shadow  are  forever  alternating 
on  its  surface. 

Its  tawny  waters  are  forever  hungry. 
Swift  and  impetuous  the  current  sweeps 
around  the  bends,  and  insidiously  gnaws  away 
at  the  soft  banks.  The  earth  crumbles  off 
and  slides  into  the  river,  the  water  takes  on 
a  trifle  darker  tinge,  and  the  current  again 
arches  up  and  rubs  off  a  little  more  of  the 
soil.  When  the  moon  comes  up  the  process 
is  carried  on  more  stealthily.  There  is  the 
same  disintegration,  the  same  chipping  off 
and  carrying  away,  but  it  is  all  done  noise- 
lessly. Finally  a  part  of  the  roots  of  some 
towering  sycamore,  elm,  or  maple  is  exposed. 
The  current  keeps  grinding  on  like  the  pad- 
dles of  a  water-wheel,  and  at  last  the  entire 
body  of  roots  is  left  without  any  support  save 
for  those  fibres  that  reach  back  in  the  bank 
beyond  the  wash  of  the  current. 

After  awhile  these  weaken,  and  the  tall  tree 
takes  a  slant  toward  the  river.  The  river  can 
afford  to  wait.  Later  on,  there  comes  the  reg- 
ular spring  freshet  and  the  water  rises  high 
above  the  banks  and  carries  off  the  last  vestige 
of  soil  from  the  exposed  roots.  The  water 

137 


OUTDOORS 


falls,  and  the  following  summer  the  sun 
bleaches  these  tangled  roots  till  they  look  like 
the  wild  gray  hair  of  an  old  witch.  The  river 
purrs  under  the  tree  like  a  cat.  The  tree  heaves 
in  its  uncertain  moorings  and  takes  a  longer 
slant  toward  the  water.  And  some  time  soon 
after,  either  at  midday  when  the  sun  shines 
strong  on  the  sandy  bars,  or  at  night  when  the 
moon  trails  like  a  ghost  through  the  pallid 
top  limbs  of  the  sycamore,  there  is  a  thunder- 
ous crash.  The  tree  is  torn  out  from  the  bank 
as  a  lock  of  hair  from  a  Titan,  and  plunges 
into  the  river  with  its  green  leaves  swashing 
the  current  and  its  form  marking  a  long  rip- 
ple on  the  water.  The  tragedy  is  complete. 
The  treacherous  river,  the  voracious  river, 
has  claimed  another  victim. 

Afterward,  long  years  hence,  with  its 
branches  stripped  clean  of  twigs  and  leaves, 
with  many  of  the  small  limbs  washed  away 
by  the  force  of  the  current  or  by  the  brunt  of 
driftwood,  the  tree,  denuded  of  its  bark  and 
rising  stark  from  the  river,  has  become  a 
"  snag,"  a  bane  of  steamboat-men,  the  haunt 
of  black  bass  and  something  to  be  avoided  by 
any  idler  who  comes  down  the  current  in  his 

138 


DOWN   THE    ST.   JOE    RIVER 

light  skiff.  For  there  the  river  runs  swiftly, 
and  an  overturning  at  that  point  will  surely 
be  dangerous. 

For  many  miles  these  mute  evidences  of 
the  river's  power  are  strewn  along,  most  of 
them  in  the  current  still,  some  of  them 
dragged  up  on  the  bank  and  left  there  by 
steamboat-men  to  make  clear  a  passage  for 
the  boats.  Some  are  there  green  in  the  pride 
of  summer,  not  yet  stripped  of  leaves  and 
branches,  and  the  great  holes  above  show 
where  the  sly  current  has  wrought  its  work 
so  well.  Year  in  and  year  out  this  goes  on, 
and  the  timber-line  recedes  from  the  edge  of 
the  water  and  marches  back  into  the  woods 
beyond. 

On  these  bald  snags  turtles  lie  in  long 
lines,  or  solitary,  as  it  may  chance.  Some  of 
them  are  the  soft-shelled  kind,  jelly-like  in 
appearance,  awkward,  reptilian,  and  hideous. 
The  "  hard-shells  "  are  not  so  ugly,  but  they 
are  all  repulsive  when  they  have  attained  any 
size.  The  smaller  turtles,  the  wee  baby  tur- 
tles, especially  the  hard-shelled  infants,  are 
smooth  little  fellows,  and  entirely  without  the 
ugliness  of  those  of  a  larger  growth.  These 

139 


OUTDOORS 


turtle  groups,  piled  on  the  snags,  will  "  fol- 
low their  leader  "  when  a  boat  draws  near, 
first  one  and  then  another  slipping  silently  into 
the  water.  Some  of  them  are  nearly  as  big 
as  the  bottom  of  a  wash-tub,  and  when  they 
are  seen  swimming  under  the  surface  you  can 
almost  imagine  you  are  wandering  in  the  days 
of  the  monster  reptiles  whose  unpronounce- 
able names  and  terrifying  figures  adorn  the 
books  on  natural  history.  Their  long,  snaky 
necks  stretch  out  and  turn  from  side  to  side, 
and  their  four  legs  oar  vigorously  as  they 
move  about.  If  one  of  them  happens  to  see 
a  dead  fish  below  the  surface  he  will  rush  for 
it  and  nose  and  shoulder  it  down  under  the 
snags  with  an  energy  that  you  would  not 
expect  from  the  sluggish-looking  specimens 
who  take  their  sun-baths  on  the  snags  at 
noonday. 

One  of  the  most  noticeable  bits  of  life 
about  the  river  is  the  kildee,  or  ring-neck 
plover.  This  bird,  jerky  of  flight  and  queru- 
lous in  call,  travels  up  and  down  the  river 
constantly.  It  lights  on  the  sandbars  which 
jut  out  into  the  river,  or  on  the  shingly  shores 
where  the  willows  have  been  washed  away. 
140 


DOWN    THE    ST.    JOE    RIVER 

The  kildee  is  essentially  a  graceful  bird,  fly- 
ing with  a  wavy,  irregular  flight  and  run- 
ning swiftly  and  easily  when  on  land.  It 
has  a  curious  habit  of  ducking  down  some- 
times as  a  boat  draws  closer,  and  this  means 
that  it  is  going  to  fly  away.  Its  colors  are 
black,  brown,  russet,  and  white,  and  are  very 
clear  and  distinct  when  the  bird  is  alive,  and 
for  a  few  minutes  after  death.  But  once  the 
bright  black  eyes  are  glazed,  the  bird  actu- 
ally withers,  as  a  flower  might,  and  the 
gleaming  tints  of  its  plumage  grow  rusty  very 
quickly.  They  fly  singly,  in  pairs,  and  in 
groups,  and  when  disturbed  take  wing  with 
a  piercing,  melancholy  cry.  Sometimes  they 
follow  the  line  of  the  river,  and  at  other 
times  they  are  away  over  the  surrounding 
hills,  mere  specks  in  the  sunlight. 

They  are  scarcely  worth  shooting,  for  their 
bodies  are  no  bigger  than  those  of  blackbirds, 
and  their  meat  is  hard  and  dry.  But  it  is 
great  sport  to  take  a  small  rifle  and  plant  a 
bullet  close  to  them  just  to  see  them  spring 
into  the  air  and  dart  away,  their  long  wings 
flashing  in  the  sun  and  their  strident  cry  of 
"  kildee,  dee,  kildee/'  coming  back  as  they 
141 


OUTDOORS 


disappear.  They  do  not  associate  with  the 
other  birds  that  frequent  the  river-banks,  the 
little  spotted  sand-pipers  that  skim  about  the 
sandy  shores  or  dodge  around  the  banks. 
Sometimes  the  kildee  comes  like  a  sprite, 
voiceless  and  gray,  alighting  on  a  bar  and 
standing  absolutely  motionless.  At  other 
times  he  is  particularly  noisy  and  exceedingly 
active.  Later  in  the  summer  they  get  more 
together  in  flocks  and  whirl  up  and  down  the 
river  and  over  the  treetops,  filling  the  air 
with  their  cries. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  do  much  rowing  when 
on  the  St.  Joe  River  if  you  are  going  down- 
stream, except  when  you  strike  a  sandbar. 
The  current  will  take  you  along  fast  enough, 
and  in  some  places  with  a  rush.  If  you  want 
to  go  up  the  river,  however,  it  will  tax  your 
rowing  abilities  to  their  utmost.  Snags  must 
be  looked  out  for,  and  each  riffle  on  the 
river's  current  should  be  studiously  watched 
to  avoid  a  possible  upsetting  of  the  boat.  In 
going  up  the  river  with  a  boat,  if  care  is 
taken  to  pick  the  water,  there  is  always  one 
course  that  can  be  taken  where  the  rowing 
will  be  easiest.  Sometimes  it  is  on  one  side, 
142 


DOWN    THE    ST.    JOE    RIVER 

and  sometimes  on  the  other.  Where  the 
water  is  still,  whether  deep  or  shallow,  there 
is  the  best  rowing. 

Sometimes  a  herd  of  cattle  make  a  pretty 
picture  in  the  current,  standing  belly-deep  in 
the  water  and  cooling  their  hides  as  the  river 
washes  by.  They  will  scramble  ashore  as  a 
boat  drifts  past,  if  it  comes  too  near  for  their 
comfort,  and  lazily  chew  the  cud  till  the  dis- 
turbing element  has  passed.  Then  they  will 
slide  into  the  water  again.  On  the  steep 
banks  of  the  river  where  the  beech-  and 
maple-trees  hang  in  clusters,  the  tinkle  of 
sheep-bells  is  heard  and  the  blatant  baaings 
of  the  lambs.  The  old  sheep  call  back  and 
the  slopes  resound  with  the  echoes. 

It  is  a  drowsy,  dreamy  way  of  blotting 
out  a  summer  day — drifting  down  with  the 
sun  and  shadows,  with  an  occasional  bump 
against  a  half-submerged  log  to  arouse  one 
to  a  sense  of  danger  —  lowlands  and  high- 
lands, wood,  fields,  and  stream,  and  the  wild- 
blackberry  vines  clinging  to  rail  fences  that 
straggle  toward  the  tops  of  the  hills. 


143 


BROOK-TROUT    FISHING 

IN  all  the  annals  of  fishing  the  trout  has 
held  a  distinguished  place  of  honor. 
In  the  gentle  art  of  angling,  as  poet- 
ically set  forth  by  that  prince  of  the  noble 
pastime,  Izaak  Walton,  the  trout  is  ap- 
proached with  a  degree  of  reverence  accorded 
to  no  other  of  the  fishes.  In  all  English  lit- 
erature the  trout  is  the  subject  of  comment, 
simile,  and  apt  illustration.  Books  have  been 
written  about  him  and  poet  and  painter  have 
combined  to  do  him  proper  honor.  The  rea- 
sons for  his  prominence  in  piscatorial  lore 
and  legend  are  many.  He  is  easily  the  most 
beautiful  of  American  game  -  fishes.  His 
home,  in  the  icy  and  clear-running  brooks  of 
the  mountain  country,  or  the  cool  brooks  and 
streams  of  the  northern  pine-woods,  is  ro- 
mantic and  picturesque  in  the  extreme.  He 
is  to  be  found  from  the  forests  of  Maine  on 
the  east  to  the  Rockies,  and  on  to  the  farther 
north  and  north-west — 
144 


BROOK-TROUT    FISHING 

"Where  rolls  the  Oregon,  and  hears  no  sound 
Save  its  own  dashings." 

The  trout  is  a  fighter  from  the  start,  and 
it  requires  skill  to  land  him  as  well  as  cun- 
ning to  hook  him.  And,  last  and  least,  he  is 
one  of  the  most  delicately  flavored  of  food- 
fishes — to  some  epicures  the  best  fish  the  mar- 
ket affords. 

The  average  trout-fisherman  would  scorn 
to  use  anything  but  an  artificial  fly  in  the 
sport.  The  different  "  flies,"  made  of  feath- 
ers, tinsel,  gimp,  deer-hair,  and  various  other 
materials,  have  as  many  and  as  fancy  names 
as  a  string  of  trotting  -  horses.  The  trout- 
fisherman  of  the  old  school  is  scientific  and 
precise  to  an  appalling  degree,  and  arrays 
himself  in  proper  costume  of  formal  cut  and 
secures  the  regulation  trout-fishing  parapher- 
nalia before  stepping  into  a  stream. 

The  trout  is  a  cold-water  crank,  and  will 
not  live  in  a  brook  or  river  unless  the  water 
is  up  to  a  certain  degree  of  coolness.  In  the 
mountainous  regions  of  the  eastern  states,  in 
the  brooks  running  down  the  mountains,  the 
true  salmo  fontinalis  is  found  in  fairly  plenti- 
ful numbers,  and  the  scenery  is  wonderfully 
H5 


OUTDOORS 


beautiful.  The  aggressively  scientific  fly-fish- 
erman I  very  seldom  ran  across  there,  but  the 
trout-fishing  was  good,  especially  after  the 
summer  rains. 

The  fish  were  as  active  as  cats,  and  when 
once  hooked  they  would  show  the  greatest  pos- 
sible interest  in  the  proceedings  until  the  inci- 
dent was  closed  by  their  going  into  the  creel. 
I  used  to  get  up  early  in  the  morning  after  a 
rain  and  start  up  the  mountain  with  a  pole 
over  my  shoulder  and  a  lunch  in  my  pocket. 
The  path  led  over  the  hill-side  behind  the 
house,  across  the  brook  at  a  little  bridge,  and 
from  there  windingly  up  the  mountain.  The 
rains  would  wash  the  trout  down  from  the 
crannies  and  pools  higher  up  on  the  mountain, 
and  it  was  necessary  to  walk  only  a  mile  or 
two  up  the  mountain  before  commencing  to 
fish.  It  was  perfectly  glorious  on  those  cool 
mornings  climbing  the  mountain-side.  Great 
hemlocks,  pines,  and  spruces  rose  on  either 
side  of  the  path  and  bowlders  along  the  way 
were  banded  and  mottled  with  close-clinging 
gray  and  green  moss.  The  music  of  running 
waters  came  gurgling  through  alder  bushes, 
and  in  the  clear  spaces  it  was  sounding  fresh 
146 


BROOK-TROUT    FISHING 

and  free.  The  cows  were  abroad.betimes  and 
occasionally  a  brown  hare  would  hop  awk- 
wardly away  deeper  into  the  thickets.  Some- 
times a  covey  of  ruffed  grouse,  with  a  roar 
of  wings,  would  flush  and  scatter  away  to  the 
trees. 

The  path  was  never  far  away  from  the 
brook,  and  after  reaching  a  point  about  a 
third  of  the  way  up,  the  turn  to  the  brook  was 
only  a  matter  of  a  few  yards.  Pushing 
through  the  brush  I  would  come  to  the 
stream  and  begin  operations.  The  rubber 
knee-boots  which  I  had  brought  along  would 
be  transferred  to  my  legs  in  a  few  seconds, 
and  I  would  fasten  my  line  to  the  end  of  my 
cane  pole  and  select  a  hook  from  a  cap-box 
full  in  my  pocket.  The  way  I  fished  ha- 
bitually for  the  noble  and  aristocratic  salmo 
fontinalis  would  have  made  "  a  follower  of 
the  faithful  "  shudder.  My  fly-book,  I  am 
compelled  to  say  apologetically,  was  simply 
a  can  of  worms — just  plain  angle-worms. 
The  trout  in  those  brooks  may  or  may  not 
have  been  acquainted  with  the  virtues  of  the 
various  hackles,  coachmen,  millers,  Seth 
Green,  grizzly  king,  bucktail,  and  other  arti- 

H7 


OUTDOORS 


ficial  flies — they  were  a  retiring,  rural  kind 
of  fish,  easily  frightened,  and  yet  hungry 
after  a  rain  —  but  they  certainly  doted  on 
fish-worms. 

And  with  a  red  and  circumlocutory  fish- 
worm  on  my  hook  I  seldom  failed  to  lure  the 
gaudily  tinted  trout  from  his  most  secret  ref- 
uge among  the  rocks.  The  brook  was  full 
of  bowlders,  big  and  little,  and  the  water  was 
usually  about  a  couple  of  feet  deep.  I  fished 
downstream,  and  it  was  easy  enough  to  get 
twenty  fair-sized  trout  in  a  morning's  fishing. 
Sometimes  two  good  fish  would  be  taken  out 
of  one  pool. 

There  is  nothing  in  out-door  sport  exactly 
like  the  rush,  tug,  and  get-away  of  a  lusty 
brook-trout.  When  he  makes  up  his  pisca- 
torial mind  that  it  is  all  right,  he  comes  for 
the  twisting  angle-worm  like  a  hornet  for  a 
small  boy.  He  nails  it,  feels  the  barb,  and 
the  trouble  is  on.  He  instantly  develops  a 
wild  yearning  to  climb  trees,  dig  into  the 
banks,  split  the  bowlders,  pull  the  brook  up 
by  the  roots,  spit  out  the  hook,  rasp  the  line 
to  a  frazzle  on  the  rocks,  bolt  through  sub- 
merged brush,  and  in  numerous  earnest  ways 
148 


BROOK-TROUT    FISHING 

disconnect  himself  from  the  end  of  your  line. 
It  isn't  one  rush,  but  a  dozen.  He  jumps  out 
of  the  water,  ties  himself  into  a  double  bow- 
knot,  unties  himself,  executes  the  grapevine 
twist,  and  goes  down  again.  His  aerial  gyra- 
tions and  subaqueous  contortions  are  a  com- 
bination of  the  movements  of  a  dodging  bat 
and  a  bucking  broncho. 

Keep  a  steady  pressure  on  the  line  and 
don't  give  him  even  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of 
slack.  Of  course,  if  you  are  fishing  with  a 
rod  and  reel  of  approved  fashion,  you  can 
catch  him  in  regulation  style,  which  is  prob- 
ably a  great  balm  to  his  feelings.  It  "  grav- 
els "  a  true  salmo  fontinalis  to  be  hoisted  out 
with  a  cane  pole,  without  a  reel,  and  all  on 
account  of  a  wriggling  red  fish-worm.  To 
snake  them  out  with  a  "  come-all-ye,"  not 
playing  them  through  a  succession  of  mad 
rushes,  but  yanking  them  aloft  by  main 
strength,  is  considered  extremely  bad  form  by 
both  the  trout  and  the  aesthetic  angler. 

The  brook-trout's  colors  are  superb  when 

he  first  comes   out  of  the  water.     A  creel 

should  be  carried,  partly  filled  with  wet  grass 

or  leaves  to  lay  the  fish  on.    When  a  trout  gets 

149 


OUTDOORS 


dry  he  takes  on  a  furniture-polish  glaze  that 
spoils  his  beauty.  In  the  mountain-streams 
where  I  fished  it  was  the  rule  to  throw  back 
all  under  six  inches  long.  They  ran  from  a 
third  of  a  pound  to  nearly  half  a  pound,  and 
on  rare  occasions  I  got  several  half-pounders 
on  one  expedition.  In  a  meadow  reaching 
up  and  into  an  intervale  lying  close  to  the 
lower  slopes  of  a  New  Hampshire  mountain,  I 
caught  a  brook-trout  of  a  trifle  over  a  pound, 
by  tossing  a  grasshopper  across  an  alder  bush 
into  the  brook  where  he  was  lurking. 

The  scientific  fisher  with  his  "  flies  "  can 
do  great  things  in  trout-fishing.  It  is  not  the 
barefoot  boy  "  with  cheeks  of  tan  "  and  bent 
pin  for  hook  who  catches  all  the  trout,  ex- 
cepting in  the  comic  papers.  One  of  these 
"  scientific  fellers  "  fished  with  me  one  day, 
and  he  caught  trout  right  along.  He  would 
stand  and  whip  a  fly  into  the  brook,  maybe  a 
half-dozen  times  in  rapid  succession,  right* 
under  overhanging  roots  or  projecting  shelves 
of  rock  by  the  pools,  and  the  first  thing  I 
would  know  some  wily  old  half-pounder 
would  come  out  with  a  rush  and  nab  the  fly. 
He  certainly  was  a  good  fisherman.  He  told 
150 


BROOK-TROUT    FISHING 

me  in  strict  confidence — and  I  repeat  it  in 
the  same  spirit — that  long  "  casts  "  in  trout- 
fishing  were  not  winners,  but  that  they  were 
good  for  bass.  In  the  north  woods  and  in 
the  mountains  of  the  west  they  get  trout 
with  a  bit  of  salt  pork  for  bait,  and  grasshop- 
pers are  very  attractive  also  to  the  speckled 
beauties.  In  fly-fishing  there  are  the  devotees 
of  the  long  "  cast "  and  of  the  short  "  cast," 
but  the  short  "  cast "  is  probably  the  best 
method  in  the  small  brooks.  Real  trout- 
anglers  are  apt  to  be  "  cranks  "  on  the  sub- 
ject, and  are  especially  intolerant  of  the  bait- 
fishermen.  They  consider  that  any  way  ex- 
cept fly-fishing  for  brook-trout  is  as  bad  as 
dynamiting  the  fish. 

Trout-fishing  is  a  sport  that  takes  you 
where  Druids  might  worship.  In  the  vaulted 
depths  of  the  pine-woods  there  is  a  sense  of 
immensity  coupled  with  the  titanic  calm  of 
the  great  hills  beyond.  You  would  not  be 
surprised  to  see  signs  of  the  mastodons  in 
those  tremendous  forest-arches.  And  the 
sound  of  winds  in  the  tops  of  the  trees  seems 
as  far  away  as  the  wash  of  surf  on  Atlan- 
tic coasts.  It  is  ghostly  and  strange  in  the 


OUTDOORS 


depths  of  such  retreats — primitive  as  crea- 
tion, and  lovely  as  the  dawn.  The  air  is 
scented  with  the  tang  and  spice  of  pine  and 
fir.  The  trailing  arbutus  with  its  delicate 
rose-colored  bloom  lends  fragrance  to  wooded 
aisles,  and  wild  red-raspberry  vines  cling  to 
the  rocky  shelves  beside  it.  The  sun  is  shut 
from  the  brook  by  the  tall  green  pillars  of 
ten  thousand  pines.  No  tongue  can  tell,  nor 
painter  prove,  how  surpassingly  beautiful  are 

"The  hills,  rock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun; 
The  vales,  stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between." 


152 


A    MASQUE    OF    THE 
SEASONS 

IN  sheer  midsummer  the  little  lake  in  the 
woods  where  I  used  to  fish  is  as  vari- 
able as  the  winds  that  sweep  across  it. 
Walled  in  by  the  hills,  it  glooms  or  bright- 
ens under  sun  or  shade,  and  glasses  the 
floating  clouds  above  it.  Lying  under  the 
apple-trees  in  July  days  there  is  no  need  of 
books  to  while  the  hours  away.  The  first 
striking  characteristic  of  the  season  is  a  feel- 
ing of  utter  peace — tranquillity  in  a  large 
sense  of  wide-vaulted  blue  skies,  dark  masses 
of  distant  woods,  and  the  furled,  yet  glow- 
ing, banners  of  the  sun. 

Almost  all  the  color-plan  is  green.  The 
thick  leaves  of  apple-trees,  the  fruit  suspended 
from  the  boughs,  the  timothy,  the  stretch  of 
waters  below,  the  oaks  at  the  foot  of  the  hill, 
the  grasses  at  the  marsh's  rim,  the  field-flung 
guidons  of  the  corn,  all  are  dressed  in  sum- 
153 


OUTDOORS 


mer's  garb,  wind-varied  shades  and  tints  of 
emerald.  The  red  clover  and  the  white  are 
lost  in  the  maze,  and  only  wild  pinks  and 
the  "  nigger-heads  "  at  the  meadow's  edges 
can  compel  recognition.  Even  the  creamy 
water-lilies  are  overwhelmed  by  great  quan- 
tities of  green  pads,  and  shadowed  by  the 
grass  and  leaves  that  mark  the  shores  where 
they  dream. 

The  crow  drifts  over  the  woods,  the  red- 
tailed  hawk  circles  high  above  the  crow,  and 
the  buzzard  blackens  the  spaces  above  where 
the  hawk  flies.  There  is  little  of  bird-music 
save  an  occasional  song-sparrow's  sweet  pip- 
ing. Blue-jays  scold  and  chase  one  another 
along  the  stubby  brush  by  the  lake,  and  a 
dandified  kingfisher  rattles  by  to  perch  on  a 
stake  in  a  shallow  bay  near  at  hand.  In  the 
orchard  occasional  shreds  of  breeze  creep  in 
and  out  of  the  leaves,  mousing  about  and  let- 
ting in  the  sunlight,  and  then  they  slip  past, 
out  and  on  to  the  corn  beyond.  Crickets 
creak  in  the  grasses,  and  in  the  sun-throb- 
bing waves  of  heat  which  seem  to  flutter  on 
the  hills  there  is  a  hint  of  the  "  chink  "  of 
importunate  grasshoppers.  Sometimes  you 
154 


A    MASQUE    OF   THE    SEASONS 

can  hear  the  pioneer  echo  of  an  axe.  It  leaps 
across  from  a  far-off  slope  with  hollow  sound, 
and  you  can  picture  the  swaying,  bending, 
crashing  downfall  of  some  sturdy  oak  or 
hickory  as  the  measured  echoes  are  carried 
past.  Every  hour  is  a  dream,  every  dream  a 
delight. 

For  Summer's  hand  has  rocked  the  world  to  sleep, 
And  smoothed  the  wrinkles  in  her  brow  of  care. 

When  lily-pads  begin  to  darken  and  grow 
crisp,  and  waters  change  from  green  to  amber 
and  brown,  the  view  from  the  hill  is  vastly  dif- 
ferent. Now  oftener  the  ripples  at  the  lake's 
edge  are  tipped  with  a  feathery  spume,  beaten 
out  by  the  flailing,  restless  winds.  Hickories 
toss  down  yellow,  irregularly  shaped  leaves, 
and  oaks  turn  to  red  and  brown  and  glaze 
smoothly  under  the  glow  of  autumnal  suns. 
Sumach  flames  from  fence-corners  and  on  the 
slopes,  and  the  grass  is  rusty  in  spots  and  tak- 
ing on  a  darker  green.  The  wandering  tern 
go  back  and  forth  along  the  lake-shore,  tack- 
ing and  veering  on  labored  wing,  and  with 
their  creaking  cry  sounding  harshly  above  the 
bulrushes.  The  loon's  black  head  appears  on 

155 


OUTDOORS 


the  water  and  occasionally  his  mocking  laugh- 
ter sounds  in  the  twilight. 

Wild  ducks  go  by,  singly,  in  pairs,  and  in 
flocks,  and  down  on  the  "  points  "  and  around 
sheltered  coves  the  "  decoys  "  of  the  hunters 
are  bobbing  up  and  down.  Bluebills,  ring- 
bill,  red-heads,  butterballs,  and  occasionally 
a  merganser,  dip  to  the  decoys  and  are  met 
with  a  whizzing  hail  of  shot.  In  the  woods 
the  fox-squirrel  leaps  nimbly  along  through 
the  leaves,  or  swings  in  the  top  of  some  tall 
hickory.  Hickory-nuts  are  ripening  now,  and 
the  thick  green  hulls  begin  to  split  and  dis- 
color as  a  late  October  sun  searches  them  out 
among  the  branches.  Rabbits  flit  along  the 
roadside  as  evening  approaches,  and  doves 
and  robins  come  past  to  roost  in  the  swamp  as 
the  sun  goes  down.  The  colors  are  myriad- 
fold  now — red,  green,  yellow,  brown,  black, 
and  gray. 

There  is  a  richness  of  tinting  that  tells  of 
maturity  where  "  the  flying  gold  of  the  ruined 
woodlands  drives  through  the  air."  The  ban- 
ners of  the  corn  have  shrivelled  into  rusty  tat- 
ters, and  golden-brown  tassels  peer  out  from 
crackling  husks.  A  woodchuck  stands  by  his 


A    MASQUE    OF   THE    SEASONS 

burrow,  and  notes  the  slant  of  the  sun's  rays> 
the  rippling  wash  of  waters  by  the  lake,  and 
the  flight  of  wild-fowl.  Breast-high  the  reeds 
swim,  and  the  hills  are  bathed  in  molten  light. 
There  is  a  hint  of  even  greater  change  in  occa- 
sional tingling  gusts  that  flatten  the  bulrushes 
to  the  water  and  go  whistling  up  the  slopes — 
a  menace  to  all  this  color  and  life  and  glow- 
ing landscape.  So  drift  the  days,  so  runs  the 
world  away. 

While  autumn,  like  a  sweet-faced,  holy  nun, 
Shades  with  a  trembling  hand  her  sad  brown  eyes. 

And  as  the  bleak  winds  scatter  drifted 
snow  under  the  old  apple-trees  still  another 
dream  is  spun  from  nature's  loom.  How 
still  the  lake  is! — a  shield  of  dazzling  white 
with  never  a  trace  or  sign  of  life  above  its 
barriers.  Under  the  snow  lies  the  armor  of 
December,  blue  ice  of  sixteen  inches,  and  be- 
low that  the  imprisoned  waters,  locked  in  the 
grasp  of  winter.  Yet  even  now  in  the  days 
when  the  sun  shines  bold  and  free  there  will 
be  found  color  and  form  in  the  woods,  by  the 
fence-corners,  and  along  the  banks  of  the 
creek — blackened  reeds,  some  vagrant  leaves 
157 


OUTDOORS 


with  faint  red  splotches  that  have  not  yet 
turned  to  russet,  and  in  the  fields  a  red- 
bird's  wing  painted  among  the  drifted  thick- 
ets. There  never  has  been  a  wind  too  chill 
to  drive  the  crow  from  the  country,  and  an 
occasional  blue-jay  still  braves  wintry  days  in 
the  woods. 

In  the  lanes  and  along  and  across  the  roads 
and  through  the  pastures  and  brush  there  are 
innumerable  rabbit-tracks  on  the  snow,  the 
fresh  ones  clearly  cut,  the  old  tracks  crumb- 
ling away  in  the  light  of  the  sun.  So,  too,  in 
the  heavier  timber  there  are  deep,  rounded 
spots  in  the  snow  at  regular  intervals,  that 
lead  from  tree  to  tree.  These  are  where  squir- 
rels have  jumped  from  one  tree's  base  to  an- 
other with  a  succession  of  long  leaps. 

The  wily  mink's  "  pad  "  is  seen  around  the 
bridges  across  the  streams,  and  sometimes  the 
snow  on  the  creek  is  brushed  where  the  ruffed 
grouse  has  stood.  Early  in  the  morning,  es- 
pecially if  snow  has  fallen  the  day  before,  the 
woods  are  marked  in  all  directions  with  the 
traces  of  animals  and  birds  that  have  set 
their  sign-manuals  on  the  glittering  expanses 
among  the  trees.  White  and  black  are  the 
158 


A    MASQUE    OF   THE    SEASONS 

predominating  colors  now.  Snow-flakes  hang 
furrily  from  naked  branches,  and  the  trees 
stand  sombre  among  drifted  banks  of  daz- 
zling brightness.  The  land  is  tranced  in  icy 
dreams.  It  is  the  stillness  of  death. 

But  when  the  days  grow  longer  and  the 
bitter,  wandering  winds  lose  their  keen-search- 
ing qualities,  the  blossoming  of  earth's  ten- 
derest  season  comes.  "  Spring,  with  that 
nameless  pathos  in  the  air,"  is  arriving  al- 
ready. The  sap  in  the  heart  of  the  hickory 
and  elm  has  stirred  at  the  recurrence  of  softer 
lights  and  less  harsh  breezes.  Again  the 
roots  of  the  grass  unlock,  like  the  fingers  of 
an  awakened  sleeper,  and  under  the  melting 
snows  the  spirits  of  a  thousand  flowers  are 
yearning  for  the  light.  The  last  year's  nests 
in  the  hedges  have  lost  their  lonely  look,  for 
how  swiftly  shall  the  living  green  speed  from 
thorn  to  thorn  and  all  the  land  laugh  into 
blossom.  The  kildee's  piercing  cry  will 
sound  above  the  pastures,  and  on  the  fence- 
stakes  the  bluebird  will  warble,  first  messenger 
and  herald  of  March.  A  myriad  of  brooks 
flow  tawny  in  the  sunlight.  The  lake's  broad 
shield  shall  crack  and  break  and  shiver  into 


OUTDOORS 


smallest  fragments,  and  these  will  melt  rap- 
idly and  wash  against  foam-piled  shores. 
The  wings  of  scurrying  wild-fowl  cut  swiftly 
across  from  cove  to  timber,  and  in  long  lines 
and  ribbons  about  the  sky,  and  the  clang  of 
Canada  geese  sounds  harsh  overhead. 

And  by  the  slope  where  apple-trees  wait, 
a  mist  of  filmy  lace  weaves  along  the  dead 
leaves  of  a  dead  year,  and  the  wing  of  a 
jaybird  flaunts  saucily  in  the  empty  branches. 
Surely  in  this  season,  of  all  others,  nature 
has  shadowed  forth  hope,  and  garbed  her  in 
many  a  color  from  the  water's  edge  to  the 
wood  coverts.  There  is  a  hint  of  mouse- 
colored  buddings  on  the  willow  twigs — cat- 
kins or  "  pussy-willows. "  There  are  green 
dottings  along  many  a  branch,  and  the  snows 
have  melted  and  gone.  The  rabbit — a  gray 
ghost  now — ambles  haltingly  along  dim  or- 
chard spaces.  The  flicker's  golden  wing 
flashes  across  and  the  sober  brown  of  a  rob- 
in's pinion  follows.  There  is  a  breath  of 
freshness  that  ripples  in  the  sunshine  and 
dances  in  the  winds  and  waters.  And  the 
elusive  spirit  of  April,  with  many  a  blossom 
in  her  hair,  leads  onward  through  meadow 
1 60 


A    MASQUE    OF   THE    SEASONS 

and   thicket,    past   stream    and   by    sleeping 
pools,  till  one  might  say  with  ^Eglamour: 

"  Here  she  was  wont  to  go;  and  here,  and  here, 
Just  where  these  daisies,  pinks,  and  violets  grow, 
The  world  may  find  the  Spring  by  following  her, 
For  other  print  her  airy  steps  ne'er  left; 
Her  treading  would  not  bend  a  blade  of  grass 
Or  shake  the  downy  blow-ball  from  his  stalk; 
But  like  the  soft  west  wind  she  shot  along 
And  where  she  went  the  flowers  took  thickest  root, 
As  she  had  sowed  them  with  her  odorous  foot." 


161 


WOODCHUCKS 

IF  you  happen  to  be  walking  along  the 
slopes  around  any  of  the  northern  or 
eastern  lakes  or  ponds,  you  may  come 
across  a  large  hole  in  the  ground.  Or  there 
may  be  two  holes.  It  looks  like  the  burrow  of 
some  animal,  and  possibly  it  is  located  close  to 
a  stump  of  a  tree.  Or  you  may  come  across 
such  a  hiding-place  in  a  coign  of  the  woods 
not  far  from  the  water's  edge.  And  in  pas- 
tures that  are  rolling  and  high,  there  are 
found  the  same  kind  of  burrows.  These  are 
the  chosen  abodes  of  the  woodchuck,  some- 
times called  the  ground-hog,  famous  for  his 
prognostications  as  to  the  weather. 

He  lives  in  these  holes,  and  forages  from 
field  to  field  in  an  unassuming  effort  to  gain 
an  honest  living.  He  has  not  a  single  friend 
on  earth,  and  his  countenance  is  a  melancholy 
and  serious  one.  Life  for  him  is  a  constant 
menace,  for  the  hand  of  man  and  boy  is 
against  him,  and  the  teeth  of  dogs  are  ever 
ready  to  close  on  his  hide.  The  hawk  which 
162 


WOODCHUCKS 


soars  in  even  circles  high  above  him  he  does 
not  fear,  for  he  is  too  heavy  to  be  carried 
off  as  its  prey.  The  big  white  owl  he  is  not 
afraid  of  for  the  same  reason.  Nor  does  he 
fear  dogs  very  much. 

It  takes  a  good  dog  to  kill  a  full-grown 
woodchuck,  for  the  beast  will  fight  desper- 
ately when  cornered,  and  is  so  tough  and  ten- 
acious of  life  that  he  will  take  a  deal  of 
killing  before  he  is  really  dead.  Sometimes 
it  is  a  drawn  battle  between  him  and  his 
canine  enemy,  each  combatant  being  quite 
willing  to  creep  off,  with  various  deep  bites 
and  scratches  to  remind  him  of  the  fray. 
And  yet  the  woodchuck,  despite  his  rather 
formidable  appearance,  is  the  most  peaceful 
of  animals.  He  prefers  very  much  the  soli- 
tude of  nature  and  the  beauties  of  field,  wood, 
and  lake  to  a  duel  with  the  dogs.  He  is  a 
quiet  citizen  of  hill-sides  and  pastures,  and 
were  it  not  for  man  and  man's  prowling  and 
aggressive  companion,  the  dog,  his  days  would 
flow  along  as  smoothly  as  the  sun  slides  into 
the  west,  when  twilight  darkens  down  the 
shadowy  ways  and  beckons  to  night  with  a 
veiled  and  mystic  gesture. 


OUTDOORS 


The  woodchuck  is  long,  large,  heavy,  and 
hairy.  He  is  neither  hog,  dog,  nor  rabbit,  yet 
having  some  characteristics  of  each.  A  large 
one  will  measure  nearly  two  feet  in  length, 
with  brownish  and  grayish  tints  on  his  upper 
fur,  and  brown  and  red  coloring  on  his  belly. 
He  will  eat  gormandizingly  like  a  hog,  he  will 
fight  viciously  like  a  dog,  and  he  burrows  like 
a  rabbit  in  the  hill-sides  of  the  northern  coun- 
ties of  the  state.  He  lives  almost  entirely  on 
vegetables,  but  I  have  heard  farmers  accuse 
him  of  carrying  away  young  chickens  when 
the  vegetable  supply  ran  short. 

Fortunately  for  him,  he  hibernates  in  the 
winter,  and  when  the  jay  and  crow  are  flying 
about  for  something  to  eat,  and  the  rabbit 
and  ruffed  grouse  are  picking  up  a  precarious 
living  from  the  drifted  woodland  ways,  the 
woodchuck  is  comfortably  asleep  in  his  warm 
burrow.  He  is  curled  up  in  there  like  a 
bear,  and  not  till  spring  will  he  come  out  to 
forage  for  an  existence,  save  on  the  historical 
2d  of  February,  when  he  emerges  to  decide 
the  momentous  question  of  what  the  weather 
will  be  for  the  next  six  weeks. 

In  the  late  summer  days  and  early  fall  the 
164 


WOODCHUCKS 


woodchuck  may  be  seen,  a  hairy  philosopher 
of  the  woods,  sitting  on  top  of  his  burrow  or 
on  top  of  some  stump  close  by,  enjoying  his 
favorite  occupation  of  sunning  himself  and 
ruminating  on  the  perfidy  of  man.  Motion- 
less as  a  monument,  and  yet  warily  observant 
of  his  surroundings,  he  will  sit  in  this  way 
for  hours  at  a  time.  It  is  believed  by  many 
people  that  the  woodchuck  really  enjoys  the 
pleasures  of  woodland  meditation.  The  soft 
winds  go  by  and  the  sun  slants  lingeringly 
along  the  broad  slopes  about  his  home. 
Swallows  swing  gracefully  above  the  apple- 
trees  on  the  hill,  and  from  a  barkless  limb 
comes  down  the  tattoo  of  the  red-headed 
woodpecker.  Doves  go  past,  swift  as  light, 
their  lead-colored  wings  striking  sharply 
across  the  treetops.  The  waters  of  the  lake 
drift  idly  in  and  as  lazily  recede.  The  sum- 
mer dreams  and  dozes,  and  clouds  of  whitest 
fleece  lie  furled  in  upper  harbors  of  bluest 
ether.  And  the  brown  stoic  of  the  fields 
looks  out  over  all  the  peace  and  beauty  of 
this  landscape,  and  wonders  why  man  was 
made  to  interrupt  the  thread  of  his  mus- 
ings, and  waylay  him  with  rifle  and  shot-gun, 


OUTDOORS 


or  bring  savage  dogs  to  rend  him  limb  from 
limb. 

One  of  the  troubles  the  woodchuck  gets 
into  is  with  the  early  boy — the  boy  of  four- 
teen years  or  thereabout.  This  youth  will 
cheerfully  study  and  plan  for  a  month  to 
catch  any  particular  woodchuck  on  the  farm. 
The  "  chuck  "  is  his  sworn  prey,  and  when 
such  a  boy  has  fully  determined  to  get  one, 
the  "  chuck  "  might  as  well  take  his  belong- 
ings and  depart  for  another  locality.  If  the 
burrow  is  near  a  lake  or  anywhere  close  to 
water  the  boy  will  lug  bucketful  after  bucket- 
ful of  water  to  the  hole  and  drown  the 
prophet  out.  He  will  set  traps  for  him — 
"  dead-fall/'  steel  trap,  or  box-trap — and  if 
all  these  arts  avail  not  he  will  sit  as  patiently 
as  an  Indian  for  hours  near  the  hole.  In  his 
hands  he  will  have  the  family  howitzer — a 
bored-out  musket  or  a  single-barrelled  shot- 
gun —  and  when  the  woodchuck  stealthily 
creeps  out  he  will  be  saluted  with  a  deafening 
roar  of  artillery,  and  a  handful  of  good-sized 
shot  will  come  straight  for  his  devoted  car- 
cass. 

Shooting  woodchucks  with  a  rifle  is  quite 
166 


WOODCHUCKS 


exciting  sport,  for  very  choice  stalking  is 
often  required  to  get  within  shooting  distance 
of  the  game.  A  woodchuck  can  be  seen  a 
long  way  off,  and  he  can  see  a  man  about 
twice  as  far  away  as  a  man  can  see  him;  so 
that  even  in  a  region  where  they  are  fairly 
plentiful  there  is  no  certainty  of  getting  a 
shot  at  one.  One  of  the  best  ways  to  assassi- 
nate one  of  them  is  to  get  acquainted  with 
him  and  learn  something  about  his  daily 
walks  in  life.  He  is  sure  to  be  somewhat 
methodical  in  his  mode  of  living,  and  will 
appear  quite  regularly  at  the  door  of  his 
home  from  day  to  day.  He  is  only  able  to 
face  one  way,  but  his  powers  of  hearing  are 
remarkably  developed. 

But  with  a  rifle  of  large  calibre  —  one 
which  will  do  execution  at  five  hundred  yards 
— a  woodchuck  can  easily  be  killed  by  a  good 
marksman.  However,  a  woodchuck  at  five 
hundred  yards  is  a  very  easy  object  to  miss. 
The  rifle-shot  of  the  galleries  who  is  used  to 
the  level  shooting  at  targets,  will  find  himself 
very  much  at  sea  when  shooting  in  the  open. 
So  I  would  advise  the  ordinarily  good  shot 
to  creep  up  as  near  as  possible  before  turn- 


OUTDOORS 


ing  loose.  It  is  a  regrettable  occurrence,  of 
course,  for  one  to  crawl  about  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  through  dusty  surroundings  in  order 
to  gain  a  point  of  vantage,  and  on  peering 
out  to  discover  that  his  fat  friend  has  taken 
the  alarm  and  is  now  in  the  safety-deposit 
vaults  some  twenty  feet  underground.  But 
maybe  you  arched  your  back  a  trifle  when 
you  were  edging  through  the  timothy,  or  per- 
haps you  moved  the  top  rail  of  that  fence 
you  wormed  through.  Sit  down  and  think  it 
over.  The  woodchuck  is  gone  and  will  not 
show  his  nose  until  to-morrow,  likely. 

A  "  chuck  "  is  not  good  to  eat,  and  his  hide 
is  only  good  to  make  whip-lashes  of,  so  far  as 
my  experience  goes.  But  they  say  that,  along 
with  the  rabbits,  he  gnaws  the  apple-trees, 
and  eats  the  turnips,  and  generally  makes 
himself  obnoxious.  And  so,  like  the  Indian, 
he  has  to  go.  In  some  localities  a  price  is  on 
his  head,  and  wherever  that  is  the  case  he  is, 
indeed,  in  a  hard  row  of  stumps.  But  much 
persecution  makes  him  all  the  warier,  and 
there  are  neighborhoods  where  the  same 
old  woodchuck  haunts  a  hill-side  year  after 
year  with  a  pertinacity  and  a  cunning 
168 


WOODCHUCKS 


which  certainly  call  for  some  degree  of  ad- 
miration. 

In  the  pictures  of  out-doors  he  is  one  of 
the  quaintest  of  objects — harmless,  medita- 
tive, and  grave  as  Solomon  himself.  He  is 
of  no  particular  use,  it  may  be  cheerfully  ad- 
mitted, but  he  is  certainly  picturesque  from 
any  point  of  view.  In  the  spring,  the  sum- 
mer, and  the  fall  he  takes  his  stand  by  the 
side  of  his  burrow  or  on  a  stump,  and,  all 
statuelike,  devotes  himself  strictly  to  his  pas- 
sion of  contemplative  musing. 

When  squatted  on  his  burrow  in  the  fall, 
he  hears  the  guns  of  the  hunters  on  the  points 
where  the  "  decoys  "  are  floating,  and  sees 
the  lines  of  wild-fowl  turn  and  scatter  at  the 
sound.  The  cat-tails  by  the  bridge  have 
turned  sere  and  brown  then,  and  the  sun 
shines  with  a  more  steady  and  persistent 
glow  on  slope  and  pasture.  The  buzzard 
swims  in  the  blue  like  a  black  frigate  on 
far-away  seas.  Cattle  graze  at  the  edges  of 
meadows,  and  the  fox-squirrel  is  preparing 
his  winter  store.  All  day  the  winds  are 
.  active  and  hickory-nuts  come  rattling  to 
the  ground,  and  yet  the  woodchuck  has  no 
169 


OUTDOORS 


need  to  take  heed  for  the  future.  When  the 
cold  winds  come,  and  the  surface  of  the  lake 
is  shining  emerald  and  the  land  is  wrapped 
in  white  blankets  of  finest  snows  he  will  be 
in  the  Land  of  Nod,  dreaming  of  days  when 
no  blight  is  on  the  earth  and  there  is  no  lack 
of  leaf  and  blossom.  And  so,  careless  of  the 
dying  year,  and  knowing  only  of  sun  and 
shower,  bud,  flower,  and  waving  grass,  the 
woodchuck  poises  by  his  burrow;  a  graven 
monk  whose  winter  of  discontent  never  comes ; 
but  who  loses  sight  of  the  last  blade  of  grass 
that  October's  banners  flourish,  as  he  descends 
into  his  earthy  cloister  for  the  winter,  to  find 
it  again  in  the  rumpled,  tossing  tresses  of  the 
spring,  as  his  brown  muzzle  reconnoitres,  for 
the  first  time  in  the  new  year,  the  old  remem- 
bered landscapes. 


170 


FROG-HUNTING 

THE  bull-frog  and  the  meadow-frog 
have  a  hard  time  of  it.     They  are 
pursued  and  persecuted  by  various 
enemies.     The  snake   family  are  partial  to 
frogs,  and  the  subtle  raccoon  is  also  a  frog- 
eater  who  gathers  in  the  nimble  batrachians 
and  places  them  where  they  will  do  him  the 
most  good.     Boys,  dogs,  and  men  complete 
the  list  of  the  frog's  destroyers. 

"Say,  have  fiends  in  shape  of  boys, 
With  wild  halloo  and  dreadful  noise, 
Hunted  thee  from  marshy  joys, 
With  a  dog, 
Expiring  frog?" 

The  reason  for  the  capture  of  these  sol- 
emn-voiced croakers  is  that  their  hind  legs, 
or  "  saddles/'  as  they  are  called,  are  partic- 
ularly delicious  to  eat.  Broiled  frog-saddles 
are  much  more  delicate  and  toothsome  than 
the  most  carefully  selected  spring  chicken. 

Frogs  are  found  in  the  marshes  and  lakes 
171 


OUTDOORS 


and  in  ponds  and  wet,  boggy  meadows. 
Sometimes  they  are  caught  on  a  hook  by  fish- 
ing for  them  with  a  piece  of  red  flannel, 
which  excites  their  wrath  when  it  is  waved 
before  their  noses.  The  adage  regarding  "  a 
red  rag  to  a  bull  "  seems  to  hold  good  in  the 
case  of  a  bull-frog.  But  the  two  most  com- 
mon ways  by  which  the  hunters  take  the 
frogs  for  the  market  are  by  spearing  and 
shooting.  Spearing  frogs  is  an  art,  and  is 
practised  in  the  marshes  and  around  the  shal- 
low shores  of  the  lakes,  where  frogs  are 
plentiful.  The  hunter  must  necessarily  be  a 
light-weight  man,  or  a  boy,  considering  the 
craft  he  employs  in  the  business.  This  is  a 
canoe  or  the  smallest  or  lightest  possible 
duck-boat,  pointed  at  both  ends,  and  able  to 
run  smoothly  in  a  few  inches  of  water.  A 
double-bladed  paddle  is  dipped  into  the  water 
from  side  to  side,  and  the  little  boat  glides 
over  the  surface  as  smoothly  as  a  water-bug. 
The  hunter  sits  in  the  centre  of  the  boat 
and  conducts  operations  from  the  right  side. 
He  has  a  small  box  in  front  of  him  and  a 
short,  sharp-bladed  knife  lying  on  the  box. 
This  knife  is  used  to  cut  off  the  saddles  as  the 
172 


FROG-HUNTING 


frogs  are  brought  into  the  boat.  The  spear 
used  by  the  hunter  is  very  light  and  with  a 
shaft  fully  eighteen  feet  long.  At  one  end  of 
the  shaft  is  fixed  the  spear,  which  has  three 
small  barbs,  each  with  an  arrow-shaped  head, 
which  prevents  the  frog  from  slipping  off 
when  transfixed.  The  shaft  or  pole  of  the 
spear  is  usually  of  pine,  sometimes  of  cane, 
and  is  absolutely  straight  and  symmetrical. 
It  is  balanced  with  the  fingers  and  thumb  of 
the  left  hand  and  propelled  by  the  fingers  and 
thumb  of  the  right  hand.  The  spear  slides 
along  the  left  hand  without  leaving  the  hand, 
and  can  be  drawn  back  readily  by  that  hand 
after  the  «throw  is  made.  The  boat  is  sent 
noiselessly  along  the  shallow  stretches  of  wa- 
ter by  light  dips  of  the  paddle,  and  as  the 
hunter  nears  where  the  frog  is  floating  in  the 
water  he  stops  the  boat  with  a  turn  of  the 
paddle.  The  spear  is  then  raised,  adjusted, 
and  literally  sighted  at  the  frog. 

The  stupid  quarry  is  meanwhile  looking 
"  all  eyes  "  at  the  hunter.  Nothing  but  the 
top  of  his  head  showing  above  the  water  de- 
notes that  a  frog  is  floating  there.  The  spear 
is  darted  toward  and  under  the  frog  with  a 


OUTDOORS 


"  whish  "  as  it  slides  along  the  fingers  and 
thumb  of  the  left  hand.  It  strikes  the  water 
with  a  sound  like  "  chuck,"  transfixing  the 
frog's  body,  and  is  then  brought  back  quickly 
by  the  left  and  right  hands  until  the  frog  is 
just  over  the  box  in  the  boat.  A  swift  stroke 
of  the  knife  and  the  "  saddle  "  is  severed 
and  is  in  the  box.  The  hunter  may  have  seen 
two  or  three  frogs  quite  close  together,  and 
if  he  is  an  adept  with  the  spear  he  will  har- 
vest them  all,  one  after  another,  without  their 
taking  alarm.  The  best  of  tools  and  the 
lightest  of  boats  is  required,  and  the  hunter 
must  have  had  years  of  experience  to  be  able 
to  handle  the  long,  light  spear  with  accuracy 
and  comparative  silence.  Splashing  will  spoil 
everything.  Frogs  are  not  speared  excepting 
while  they  are  in  the  water,  and  a  skilful 
hunter  can  pick  up  five  or  six  dozen  frogs  in 
a  day  easily  when  they  are  at  all  numerous. 

Skill  with  the  spear  and  paddle  and  a 
knowledge  where  the  best  places  are  for  the 
game  are  the  requisites  for  success.  A 
"  cracker  jack  "  with  the  spear  will  get  a  frog 
ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred.  The 
frogs  lie  about  in  the  very  shallow  water,  and 
174 


FROG-HUNTING 


the  coming  in  of  a  light  boat  does  not  seem 
to  alarm  them.  Frog-legs  are  sold  in  the 
market  according  to  size  and  by  the  dozen. 

Shooting  frogs  is  quite  another  matter, 
and  requires  skill  with  the  rifle  and  patience 
in  stalking.  The  bull-frog  on  the  bank  is 
quite  a  different  party  from  the  bull-frog  in 
the  pool,  and  he  views  with  the  utmost  sus- 
picion any  attempt  to  cultivate  his  acquaint- 
ance. When  alarmed  he  will  launch  out  into 
space  and  dive  down  into  the  water  with  a 
more  or  less  resounding  "  plunk,"  according 
to  his  size.  He  is  morbidly  alert  to  ap- 
proaching footsteps,  and  is  willing  to  vacate 
a  nice  cool  spot  on  the  edge  of  a  pond  or  lake 
at  any  time  when  he  hears  a  man  or  boy  ap- 
proaching, so  that  stalking  him  successfully 
requires  a  keen  eye  and  some  knowledge  of 
the  wily  frog.  Just  as  his  stupidity  in  the 
water  is  apparent,  so  is  his  sagacity  on  land 
patent  to  his  foes.  Sometimes  there  will  be  a 
dozen  frogs  squatted  along  one  little  stretch 
beside  a  pond,  and  usually  as  one  leaps  into 
the  water  the  rest  follow,  one  after  another, 
with  hollow  "  plunks,"  until  the  shore  is  bare. 

To  shoot  them  before  they  jump   is  the 

175 


OUTDOORS 


trick,  and  to  do  this  from  the  bank  requires 
a  cautious  approach.  They  should  be  shot 
through  the  head,  as  they  are  extremely  tena- 
cious of  life,  and  often  jump  into  the  water 
and  sink  if  shot  through  the  body.  The  best 
way  to  get  them  with  a  rifle  is  to  shoot  them 
from  the  water,  wading  along  at  the  edge  of 
the  shore,  a  little  ways  out,  and  shooting  them 
as  they  sit  on  the  bank.  A  twenty-two-calibre 
rifle  is  amply  large  enough  for  this  kind  of 
shooting,  and  short  twenty-twos  or  even  the 
half-size  bulleted  caps  can  be  used.  A  man 
should  have  rubber  knee-boots  or  hip-boots 
for  this  kind  of  wading  and  must  move 
slowly  in  the  water,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout 
for  his  game.  In  the  spring  and  summer 
days  frog  shooting  is  a  sport  which  will 
afford  considerable  amusement,  besides  giv- 
ing practice  with  the  rifle  and  the  oppor- 
tunity to  loaf  in  the  midst  of  pleasant  sur- 
roundings. 

At  the  lake's  edge  the  kingfisher  patrols, 
now  clattering  along  over  the  bulrushes,  and 
now  perching  on  a  dead  limb,  or  a  stake  by 
the  water.  The  hill-side  oaks  throw  a  veil  of 
shadows  to  the  ripples  and  an  occasional 


FROG-HUNTING 


splash  tells  where  a  black  bass  leaped  for  a 
roving  dragon-fly.  The  surface  of  the  lake, 
alternately  smoothed  and  ruffled  by  winds  and 
flecked  by  sun  and  shade,  is  an  ever-changing 
picture,  framed  by  the  massive  hills.  The 
creak  of  a  rowlock  announces  a  passing  boat, 
and  a  lazy  buzzard  draws  inky  circles  high 
up  in  the  blue.  The  sun  shines  in  drowsy 
meadows  where  katydids  cling  to  the  grasses, 
and  down  in  the  woods  the  spirit  of  slum- 
ber folds  idle  hands  and  dreams  the  long  day 
through. 

If  you  want  frogs  for  bait  —  and  what 
more  tempting  bait  can  be  offered  to  a  big- 
mouthed  bass? — you  must  take  them  alive. 
This  will  require  a  small  linen  sack  and 
the  "  know  how "  of  live-frog  catching. 
Meadow-frogs  are  your  game  now,  and  you 
will  find  them  in  little  boggy,  damp  spots  on 
the  hill-side,  or  deep  in  the  woods  in  grassy 
"  sloughs "  that  lie  in  the  timber.  There 
you  will  find  the  meadow-frogs  ready  to  be 
caught.  They  can  jump  about  seven  feet  at 
a  clip,  and  to  catch  them  by  hand  requires 
an  eye  for  distance  and  some  practice.  It  is 
pretty  good  fun  surrounding  a  lusty  meadow- 
177 


OUTDOORS 


frog  in  tall  grass  and  trying  to  grab  him  be- 
tween jumps. 

These  frogs  make  excellent  bait  for  big- 
mouth  bass,  and  if  the  linen  sack  is  kept  wet, 
they  will  live  and  be  lively  for  several  days. 
The  bull-frog  is  not  good  bait,  being  too 
large  to  be  engulfed,  and  too  heavy  to  cast 
successfully,  when  at  his  full  growth. 

It  is  a  pity  to  shoot  and  spear  the  true 
bull-frogs,  for  their  sombre  bellowing  in  the 
evening  is  one  of  the  oddest  sounds  in  nat- 
ure. When  the  dusk  threads  of  twilight  are 
woven  in  with  the  afterglow  of  the  west,  the 
bull-frogs  sound  sonorous  chords,  which  re- 
verberate along  and  over  the  reeds  and  rushes, 
far-reaching  down  the  night.  Long  ago,  they 
say,  when  Pan  was  driven  from  the  marshes, 
he  called  the  frogs  to  him.  They  were  his 
favorites, 

"  And  all  around  him  on  the  wet, 

Cool  earth  the  frogs  came  up,  and,  with  a  smile, 
He  took  them  in  his  hairy  hands  and  set 
His  mouth  to  theirs  awhile, 

"  And  blew  into  their  velvet  throats; 

And  ever  from  that  hour  the  frogs  repeat 
The  murmur  of  Pan's  pipes;  the  notes 
And  answers  strange  and  sweet/* 

17.8 


THE    CROW'S    WING 

FROM  the  Gulf  to  the  Great  Lakes, 
from  California's  Golden  Gate  on 
the  west  to  Far  Rockaway  on  the 
east,  a  broad  and  sable  wing  beats  the  air. 
In  sun  and  shine,  through  rain,  hail,  or  sleet, 
long  lines  of  black  at  the  coming  of  twilight 
mark  the  airy,  distant  trails  where  the  crow 
flies.  The  ebon  pinions  of  his  Ishmaelitish  clan 
darken  the  skies  in  most  states  of  the  Union. 
He  is  himself  an  undaunted  robber  and  pirate, 
with  the  black-flag  always  flying  and  a  harsh 
challenge  of  sombre  note  that  menaces  and 
beats  back  the  fates.  Every  bird's  beak  is 
against  him,  and  he  is  at  war  with  the  rest 
of  the  feathered  tribes.  Not  in  all  of  my 
out-door  life  have  I  ever  noticed  sociability 
on  the  part  of  the  crow  toward  other  birds. 
He  often  robs  their  nests  and  kills  their 
young.  When  the  kingbird,  or  bee-martin, 
as  he  is  sometimes  called,  attacks  the  crow, 
that  hardy  freebooter  spreads  wing  and  is 
179 


OUTDOORS 


away,  scarcely  noticing  the  assaults  of  his 
bold  little  tormentor.  But  when  a  hawk  or 
an  eagle  appears  on  the  scene,  the  crow  him- 
self becomes  the  aggressor,  and  he  follows 
the  larger  bird  pertinaciously,  plucking  out  a 
feather  now  and  then,  and  driving  his  enemy 
down  wind  with  resistless  energy. 

The  hand  of  man  is  against  him  every- 
where, and  well  might  it  be. 

The  crow  descends  on  the  fields  in  count- 
less numbers,  and  as  he  must  and  will  live, 
however  scanty  the  fare,  his  philosophy  is 
that  of  the  conscienceless  forager.  He  regu- 
lates his  conduct  by  u  the  good  old  rule,  the 
simple  plan,  that  they  shall  take  who  have 
the  power,  and  they  shall  keep  who  can."  In 
cornfields,  orchards,  and  in  meadows  he  gleans 
with  a  sharp  bill  whatever  may  be  found.  He 
does  not  hesitate  to  attack  young  chickens  and 
rabbits,  and  even  puny  lambs,  when  reduced 
to  dire  need.  The  world  owes  him  a  living, 
according  to  his  code,  and  he  collects  it  in 
person. 

His  is  the  most  familiar  figure  in  bird  life, 
because  the  most  universal.  His  plumage  is 
coal  black,  but  on  the  back  and  at  the  base  of 
180 


THE    CROW'S    WING 


the  wings  and  neck  there  is  a  purplish  gloss 
which  is  very  noticeable,  especially  on  the 
younger  birds.  His  eyes  are  brown,  very 
bright,  and  more  than  usually  intelligent. 
From  the  tip  of  his  strong  bill  to  the  end  of 
his  tail  a  full-grown  crow  will  measure  close 
to  nineteen  inches  in  length.  His  wings  are 
broad  and  strong,  and  are  remarkable  for 
their  power  of  sustained  and  unflagging 
flight.  Crows  build  their  nests  in  the  timber, 
rough-lined  and  coarse  ones  of  sticks,  and 
the  she-bird  lays  from  three  to  six  eggs. 
These  nests  are  in  the  tall  trees  as  a  rule,  and 
sometimes  many  of  them  are  close  together. 
Carrion,  crawfish,  frogs,  apples,  corn,  meat 
— almost  anything  he  can  get  his  thievish 
claws  on  he  will  devour.  And  if  necessary, 
he  will  go  hunting  in  the  pastures  for  bugs, 
worms,  insects,  field-mice,  or  even  young  rab- 
bits. All  he  asks  is  an  opportunity  to  forage. 
There  is  no  craven  cowardice  in  his  defiant 
"  caw,  caw,"  and  if  winged  by  the  hunter's 
fire  he  will  turn  his  shining  dark  eyes  coura- 
geously toward  his  arch-enemy — man — and 
fight  with  wing,  beak,  and  claw  to  the  very 
last. 

181 


OUTDOORS 


Of  the  crow's  flight  much  could  be  written. 

Curving  sweep  of  a  burnished  wing, 
Black  as  the  gloom  of  a  winter  night; 
Strong  in  a  sense  of  hardy  flight 
Over  the  woods  and  the  mountain  height, 
Winds  and  the  white  moon  following. 

Along  the  larger  rivers  crows  gather  in 
many  thousands,  and  when  twilight  comes 
stealing  on,  and  the  silvery  sickle  of  the  new 
moon  is  etched  pale  against  the  curtains  of 
night,  they  go  by  in  long  lines  and  com- 
panies to  their  distant  roosts  in  some  far- 
away forest.  They  fly  high  as  a  rule,  and 
for  hours  their  steady  travel  blots  the  red 
glare  of  the  sinking  sun  and  throws  sombre 
streaks  athwart  the  leaden  tapestry  of  shad- 
ows that  follow.  You  will  wonder  where 
they  all  come  from,  where  they  are  all  go- 
ing,-and  how  they  manage  to  exist.  If  all 
mankind  were  as  stout-hearted  as  these  van- 
dals of  the  waste  places  arid  pathless  high- 
ways, what  a  race  we  would  be !  The  crow 
is  truly  a  survival  of  the  fittest,  if  endurance 
and  sagacity  be  a  test.  Some  of  them  live  to 
be  eighty  or  one  hundred  years  old.  Little, 
indeed,  do  those  resolute  pinions  care  for 
182 


THE    CROW'S   WING 


rain,  hail,  or  sleet,  the  rattle  of  menacing 
thunder,  the  lightning's  crooked  darts,  or  the 
roar  of  gathering  tempests.  "  As  the  crow 
flies  "  has  become  a  proverb  for  directness  of 
flight,  for  the  nearest  line  between  two  dis- 
tant points.  His  awkward  sweep  of  wing 
will  carry  him  along  without  apparent  effort 
at  a  rate  of  from  forty  to  fifty  miles  an  hour, 
and  in  staying  powers  there  are  few  birds 
which  can  match  prowess  with  the  crow. 

His  song  is  not  a  varied  one.  The  queru- 
lous, inquisitive  "  caw,  caw "  that  he  sends 
out  is  loud  and  curt,  and  carries  with  it  an 
apprehensive  tone,  as  though  he  would  like 
to  hear  a  responsive  and  assuring  cry  from 
one  of  his  own  kind.  For  with  bullet,  trap, 
and  shot-gun  he  is  remorselessly  sought,  and 
as  he  is  more  and  more  hunted  he  grows  ex- 
ceedingly cunning,  and  his  habits  of  retiring 
modesty  become  almost  a  mania  with  him. 
About  long  rifle-range  is  as  near  as  he  is  com- 
fortable with  a  man  in  the  average  neighbor- 
hood. Where  a  person  is  in  a  buggy  or 
wagon  the  crow,  like  many  other  birds,  does 
not  get  so  suspicious  of  the  occupants  of  the 
vehicle  as  he  would  be  of  a  pedestrian.  And 


OUTDOORS 


yet  if  a  man  sets  out  deliberately  to  hunt 
them  day  in  and  day  out  for  any  length  of 
time,  on  horseback  or  from  a  rig,  they  will 
soon  get  the  drift  of  his  scheme  and  refuse  to 
be  gulled.  In  only  two  states  that  I  know  of 
are  the  crows  mentioned  in  the  game-laws, 
and  there  they  are  named  only  as  not  being 
protected.  In  many  parts  of  the  country 
there  is  a  bounty  for  them  the  year  round. 

From  two  to  five  cents  a  head  is  paid  for 
them  in  various  sections  of  the  states.  The 
boys  and  men  of  these  particular  localities 
hunt  them  perseveringly.  I  hunted  crows 
with  a  double-barrelled  shot-gun  one  summer, 
with  very  fair  success.  The  birds  frequented 
old  orchards  a  good  deal,  which  were  usu- 
ally inclosed  by  stone  walls  from  three  to 
four  feet  high.  I  used  to  prowl  around  until 
I  saw  a  crow  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  from 
the  top  of  an  apple-tree.  This  bird  was  the 
temporary  chairman  of  the  meeting  of  the 
crows,  a  sort  of  "  sentinel-am-I  "  crow.  Af- 
ter he  had  been  up  in  the  tree  for  a  few 
minutes  he  would  fly  down,  and  presently 
another  bird  would  fly  up  and  take  his  place. 
In  this  short  interval  between  guard-duty  I 
184 


THE    CROW'S    WING 


would  make  a  run  and  crouch  behind  the 
stone  wall  nearest  me.  It  then  became  a  cau- 
tious stalk  to  get  within  range,  by  running  a 
little  way  each  time  the  guard-mount  was 
shifted.  It  worked  to  a  charm  for  some 
time.  I  would  approach  within  twenty  or 
thirty  yards  of  them,  and  when  a  lone  senti- 
nel flew  down  after  I  had  crept  within  range 
I  would  get  in  one  barrel  at  the  bunch  on 
the  ground  and  another  shot  as  the  survivors 
rose.  I  averaged  at  least  three  crows  to  each 
double  discharge.  Of  course  it  was  "  pot- 
hunting,"  but  I  considered  the  crows  as  "  ver- 
min," and  shot  them  "  on  the  wing,  on  the 
head,  on  the  tail — anywhere." 

It  was  very  exciting  stalking  for  a  while,  but 
they  stopped  it  by  a  simple  method  of  bird- 
reasoning.  The  sentinel-crow  finally  got  to 
waiting  until  his  "  relief  "  flew  up  into  the 
tree  before  he  flew  down  to  join  the  gang  in 
the  orchard.  With  a  "  lookout "  always  in 
the  tree  my  occupation  as  a  crow-hunter  was 
gone.  I  could  not  begin  to  get  within  shot- 
gun range  of  them.  The  minute  I  tried  to 
make  a  sneak  on  them  the  alarm  was  given, 
and  away  they  went  to  some  other  part  of 

185 


OUTDOORS 


the  township.      I  killed  a  few  with  a  rifle 
after  that,  but  not  many. 

Since  then  I  have  not  done  any  steady 
crow-hunting.  They  fly  over  in  the  spring 
and  fall  when  a  man  is  in  the  "  blinds  "  hunt- 
ing ducks  over  the  decoys,  and  sometimes  I 
take  a  crack  at  one,  but  not  so  often  as  I  used 
to.  They  do  say — some  of  the  wise  ones — 
that  he  is  a  great  friend  of  the  farmer.  I 
don't  think  so.  But  for  his  pertinacity,  sense, 
love  of  freedom,  strength  of  flight,  and  hon- 
orable suit  of  black  I  nevertheless  salute  him, 
and  respect  the  best  of  what  he  stands  for. 

Send  my  soul  on  a  sable  wing, 
Death,  when  the  darkness  falls  on  me; 
Let  me  wander  by  land  and  sea 
Free  as  the  crow's  flight;  yea,  as  free — 
Winds  and  the  white  moon  following. 


186 


PRAIRIE-CHICKEN 
SHOOTING 

IN  many  of  the  states  where  prairie- 
chickens  were  formerly  found  in  the 
prairies,  there  is  now  comparatively 
little  of  that  kind  of  cover  left  for  the  birds. 
Agriculture  has  made  farms  of  the  wide- 
rolling  savannas,  and  these  grouse  nest  in  the 
"  slues  "  and  meadows  and  feed  in  the  stub- 
bles and  cornfields.  In  the  far  western  and 
northwestern  states  there  are  still  prairies  left, 
but  much  of  this  kind  of  hunting  is  done 
nowadays  on  oats  and  wheat  stubbles,  in  corn- 
fields, and  in  "  slues  "  adjoining  marshes. 

The  pinnated  grouse  is  a  splendid  and 
hardy  bird,  standing  as  high  as  the  ordinary 
good-sized  barn-yard  fowl,  and  weighing, 
when  full-grown,  from  three  and  one-half 
to  four  and  one-half  pounds.  He  is  of  a 
brownish  color  variegated  with  gray,  lighter 
on  the  breast  and  speckled,  and  with  rich, 
dark  streaks  of  coloring  on  the  back.  His 


OUTDOORS 


head  has  a  partial  crest,  and  there  are  two 
little  tufts  of  feathers  on  the  neck.  The 
tail  is  broad,  and  the  legs  are  fairly  well 
feathered.  He  is  capable  of  enduring  a  great 
deal  of  cold  weather,  and  will  manage  to 
pick  up  a  living  in  the  fields,  hedges,  and  or- 
chards in  severe  winters  when  quail  freeze. 
He  will  feed  on  grain,  insects,  bugs,  and  pos- 
sibly even  buds,  as  the  ruffed  grouse  does, 
when  hard  pressed  for  food.  He  under- 
stands the  value  of  timber  as  a  shelter  dur- 
ing cold  weather,  and  will  fly  a  long  way  to 
get  there  from  the  piercing  winds  of  the 
prairies  during  winter  months.  He  is  a  hand- 
some bird,  and  lies  well  to  the  dogs.  The 
coveys  run  from  eight  to  a  dozen,  fifteen,  or 
twenty-five  birds.  Years  ago  the  coveys,  or 
aggregations  of  coveys,  called  "  packs,"  made 
flocks  of  hundreds  no  rare  sight. 

The  flight  of  the  prairie-chicken  is  rather 
peculiar  in  the  beginning.  When  the  bird  is 
first  flushed  he  rises  with  a  rocking,  cradle- 
like  motion,  his  wings  beating  the  air 
strongly.  He  presently  steadies  down  to  an 
even,  sailing  movement,  broken  at  short  in- 
tervals by  a  whirring  of  broad,  strong  pin- 
188 


PRAIRIE-CHICKEN    SHOOTING 

ions.  Long  ago,  when  prairie-chickens  were 
not  hunted  so  much,  and  there  was  more  prai- 
rie, the  birds  would  fly  a  short  distance  when 
disturbed  and  settle  in  the  grass  again.  But 
now  they  fly  from  a  half-mile  to  a  mile  or 
even  farther,  in  localities  where  they  are  most 
hunted.  They  are  not  hard  birds  to  hit  on 
the  wing,  but  the  old  ones  can  carry  away 
quite  a  grist  of  shot,  so  that  a  man  must  hit 
them  hard  to  kill  them  cleanly. 

The  main  precaution  in  shooting  chickens 
is  to  take  time  when  the  birds  rise,  and  not 
shoot  too  quickly.  They  don't  fly  swiftly  like 
a  quail,  or  make  erratic  twists,  as  a  jack* 
snipe  does,  and  you  will  have  plenty  of  time 
to  get  in  both  barrels  at  a  single  bird,  or 
make  "  doubles  "  when  the  coveys  get  up,  if 
you  don't  spoil  things  by  firing  too  soon.  It 
is  a  rare  thing  to  have  an  entire  covey  of 
chickens  rise  at  once.  Sometimes  the  main 
bunch  rises  and  then  a  few  scattering  ones 
follow.  Sometimes  all  but  one  fly  at  the  first 
alarm,  and  occasionally  a  stray  bird  flies  up, 
followed  by  the  rest  of  the  covey,  except  the 
one  which  usually  waits  until  the  rest  have 
gone.  This  is  a  peculiarity  of  the  pinnated 
189 


OUTDOORS 


grouse.  There  is  nearly  always  one  bird 
which  waits  until  the  covey  has  flown  before 
it  gets  up  out  of  the  cover.  And  so  it  pays 
to  hunt  around  when  a  covey  has  flown,  in 
search  of  this  laggard  bird  before  going  on. 
It  is  very  laborious  and  difficult  work  hunt- 
ing chickens  without  a  dog,  especially  in  Sep- 
tember, when  the  birds  are  young  and  loath 
to  fly,  and  the  cover  is  thick.  Chickens  will 
skulk  and  hide  and  squat  in  the  grass  or 
stubble  and  let  you  pass  within  a  few  feet 
of  them  without  their  rising.  A  well-broken 
dog,  or  even  two  dogs,  must  necessarily  be 
taken  along.  And  a  crippled  prairie-chicken 
can  dodge  along  in  the  cover  and  sneak  away 
through  corn-rows  in  a  manner  to  defy  any- 
thing but  a  good  dog.  When  a  covey  scatters 
in  corn  and  high  grass  or  weeds  a  dog  can 
locate  them  one  by  one,  and  it  is  no  trick  at 
all  to  bring  them  down  in  the  open.  In  tall 
grass  it  is  not  so  easy.  You  are  obliged  to 
shoot  quickly  then,  and  the  waving  blades 
of  corn  on  a  windy  day  are  not  easy  to  see 
through.  But  in  stubble,  or  on  the  prairies, 
a  September  chicken  at  from  twenty  to  forty 
yards  is  an  easy  mark. 
190 


PRAIRIE-CHICKEN    SHOOTING 

They  feed  in  the  stubble  in  the  morning 
and  in  the  evening,  and  generally  take  to  the 
cornfields  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  They 
lie  in  the  shade  there  or  roll  around  in  the 
cool  dirt  to  rid  themselves  of  vermin.  It  is 
hot  work  forcing  one's  self  through  the  heavy 
green  corn  in  September  weather,  and  without 
a  dog  a  man  would  be  almost  helpless.  Even 
with  the  dog  along  the  chickens  will  some- 
times play  "  hide-and-seek  "  through  the  corn 
and  elude  the  dog  in  many  ways.  They  will 
run  from  the  dog  and  not  lie  so  that  he  can 
point  them  always.  If  there  are  weeds  in 
the  corn  they  will  hide  there  and  the  shoot- 
ing will  be  improved.  The  present  genera- 
tion of  pinnated  grouse  nearly  all  dive  into 
the  fields  after  being  flushed  from  the  stub- 
ble, and  you  have  to  push  right  in  there  and 
"  dig  them  out  "  to  get  any  shooting.  The 
only  sensible  way  to  hunt  chickens  is  to  have 
a  rig  which  will  carry  yourself  and  partner, 
the  driver,  the  lunch,  and  the  dogs.  Take 
feed  for  the  horses  and  water  for  the  dogs. 
In  this  way  you  can  be  driven  from  one  place 
to  another  and  cover  a  vast  deal  of  territory 
in  a  day.  You  will  find  that  you  will  have 
191 


OUTDOORS 


to  do  that  to  get  any  shooting  worth  mention- 
ing. As  the  birds  sometimes  fly  a  mile,  it  is 
handy  to  have  the  team  pick  you  up  to  get 
to  them  again  without  walking  yourself  into 
a  state  of  combustion  to  reach  them. 

The  gun  for  shooting  chickens  should  be 
a  twelve-gauge  gun,  modified  choke  in  the 
right-hand  barrel  and  full-choke  in  the  left- 
hand  barrel.  A  six-and-a-half-  to  a  seven- 
and-a-half-pound  gun  is  heavy  enough.  A 
pair  of  heavy  stubble  boots  is  an  advantage 
in  walking,  and  stout  duck  hunting-trousers 
and  coat  will  keep  you  dry  while  tramp- 
ing through  the  wet  weeds,  grass,  and  stub- 
ble, not  to  mention  the  corn.  If  you  don't 
wear  stubble  boots  have  a  pair  of  strong  and 
thick  duck  leggings  to  wear  over  your  trou- 
sers. The  best  way  is  for  two  men  to  go 
together,  beating  the  cover  about  twenty-five 
yards  apart.  They  can  then  command  close 
to  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  space  with 
the  two  guns  as  to  width,  and,  say,  forty  to 
sixty-five  yards  ahead.  This  will  give  the 
chickens  a  good  opportunity  to  get  in  the 
way  of  the  shot,  and  as  for  the  bird  that  gets 
up  within  the  inner  circle  between  the  men, 
192 


PRAIRIE-CHICKEN    SHOOTING 

he  is  as  good  as  dead,  unless  the  hunters  are 
"  duffers." 

When  a  bird  gets  up  in  front  of  a  man 
that  is  his  shot.  If  it  gets  up  between  the 
men,  the  man  who  has  invited  his  friend  out 
to  shoot  will  give  him  the  shot.  And  the 
friend  will  insist  on  the  inviter  taking  the 
next  shot  of  the  kind  when  the  dog  makes  a 
point  of  that  character.  Should  a  covey  rise, 
each  man  will  pick  outside  birds  to  prevent 
both  shooting  at  the  same  birds.  It  is  per- 
fectly allowable  for  a  man  to  fire  at  a  bird 
his  companion  has  missed  with  both  barrels, 
and  to  fire  at  either  bird  of  "  a  double  "  which 
his  companion  has  missed.  But  if  a  man  has 
missed  his  first  shot  of  a  double  rise  and  fol- 
lows the  bird  shot  at  with  the  evident  inten- 
tion to  get  his  second  barrel  in  at  the  same 
bird,  then  his  companion  can  shoot  at  the 
other  bird  of  the  double.  Two  men  who 
have  hunted  together  never  have  any  diffi- 
culty about  whose  shot  it  is,  or  who  should 
take  any  particular  shot.  It  is  always  as 
much  pleasure  to  see  a  friend  make  "  a 
double  "  as  it  is  to  make  the  shots  yourself — 
oftentimes  more. 

193 


OUTDOORS 


In  shots  that  go  straight  away  hold  so 
that  the  gun  is  level  with  the  chicken's  back, 
if  the  bird  is  sailing.  If  he  is  rising,  hold  a 
trifle  above  him.  If  a  quartering  shot,  hold 
a  few  inches  ahead  of  him,  keeping  the  muz- 
zle of  the  gun  moving  as  you  pull  the  trig- 
ger. If  the  shot  is  a  cross-shot,  and  a  long 
one,  hold  farther  ahead.  Just  how  far  de- 
pends on  the  speed  the  bird  is  going,  the 
velocity  of  the  wind,  how  high  he  is,  how 
far  away  he  is,  and  other  things.  Number 
seven  or  eight  shot  is  heavy  enough  for  Sep- 
tember birds,  although  some  of  the  shooters 
stick  to  number  six  shot  for  both  barrels. 

Take  some  dry  hay  along  and  draw  your 
birds  as  soon  as  they  are  shot.  Stuff  them  with 
the  hay,  and  as  soon  as  practicable  get  them  to 
the  wagon  and  keep  them  in  the  shade.  When 
you  get  to  your  hotel  or  stopping-place  have 
them  hung  in  a  cool  spot  and  dry  until  you  go 
home.  If  you  are  going  to  stay  out  for  sev- 
eral days  "  draw  "  and  stuff  the  birds  and 
then  express  them  to  your  friends.  Never  kill 
over  twelve  birds  in  a  day.  A  man  cannot 
comfortably  carry  more  than  a  dozen  birds, 
and  should  not  shoot  more  than  he  can  carry. 
194 


A    FOX    IN    THE    MERA- 
MEC    VALLEY 

THE  Meramec  river  flows  down 
through  the  Missouri  hills  with  a 
rush,  speeding  its  way  to  the  Mis- 
sissippi with  the  ardor  of  a  courier  carrying 
a  reprieve.  It  is  deep  in  places,  and  at  a  few 
fords  shallow,  with  a  world  of  music  where 
its  current  babbles  over  the  bars.  It  has  a 
distinct  individuality  among  rivers,  a  sort  of 
turbulent  energy,  as  though  disdainful  of  all 
the  restraining  influences  of  man.  A  wild 
river  always,  seldom  bringing  with  it  any  of 
those  peaceful,  slumbrous  influences  so  com- 
mon to  the  lowland  streams.  Even  where  the 
land  slopes  to  the  lesser  levels  the  Meramec 
shakes  the  ripples  that  crown  it,  like  the  mane 
of  an  unruly  colt,  and  leaps  forward,  as  if 
anxious  to  gain  the  sheltering  shadows  of 
the  hills.  It  is  the  type  of  restlessness,  of 

195 


OUTDOORS 


strength,  and  of  activity.  Like  a  lithe  and 
sinewy  Indian  runner,  it  stretches  out  for  its 
race  to  the  sea,  and  night  and  day,  with  un- 
swerving patience,  it  holds  to  the  appointed 
course.  Around  it  rise  the  timber-covered 
ridges  of  the  south-west,  studded  thick  with 
hickory,  oak,  butternut,  elm,  sycamore,  ash, 
and  other  trees.  Above  it,  in  the  autumn 
days,  shines  the  sun  from  the  bluest  of  semi- 
tropic  skies. 

Along  these  hills  a  hard-riding,  hospitable 
class  of  farmers  live,  and  they  ride  to  hounds 
as  their  fathers  did  before  them.  To  them 
the  life  of  a  fox  is  sacred,  except  as  caught 
by  the  hounds  and  killed  in  honorable  battle. 
Their  dogs  are  pedigreed  and  carefully  bred, 
and  their  lineage  is  proudly  preserved  both 
in  traditional  and  in  book  form.  The  horses 
they  use  for  the  chase  are  not  condemned  to 
the  servile  toil  of  the  plough,  but  are  only 
taken  for  saddle  uses,  chief  of  which  are  the 
fox-chases  along  the  hills.  In  their  homes  is 
still  preserved  that  genuine,  hearty  hospital- 
ity which  includes  friend  or  stranger,  and  is 
the  delight  and  wonder  of  those  not  to  the 
manner  born — a  kindliness  and  simplicity  of 
196 


A  FOX  IN  THE  MERAMEC  VALLEY 

speech  and  deed  which  tells  of  real  nobility 
of  character,  unspoiled  and  still  unspotted  by 
the  world. 

In  the  late  October  or  early  November  days 
a  man  can  lie  on  one  of  these  slumbering  hills 
and  dream  away  the  time,  wrapped  in  an 
Indian-summer  haze  which  envelops  the  land 
in  a  mantle  of  surpassing  beauty.  And  if  he 
is  fortunate  enough  to  be  near  by  to  a  fox- 
chase  he  will  have  a  variety  of  music  and 
color  and  conjecture  to  keep  all  his  senses 
keenly  alive  for  hours.  They  hunt  the  fox 
along  the  bluffs,  and  even  down  into  the 
thickets  and  woods  which  stand  on  the  steep 
banks  below.  Bold  riders  they  certainly  are, 
taking  risks  which  would  appall  the  ordinary 
sportsman.  And  on  such  a  day,  and  with 
such  an  opportunity,  I  once  whiled  away  a 
long  October  afternoon  among  the  Meramec 
hills. 

The  river  wound  past  amid  tall  and  abrupt 
rises,  dense  timber  covering  each  bank,  with 
the  autumn  sun  streaming  down  on  its  cur- 
rent as  it  went  by.  Where  the  light  had  full 
sweep  on  the  water  a  flood  of  molten  gold 
glittered,  and  where  the  leaves  beat  back  the 
197 


OUTDOORS 


sun  a  wall  of  shadows  brooded.  On  the 
slopes  the  sumach  blazed,  the  wine  of  all  the 
seasons  red-gleaming  in  its  clusters,  and  be- 
low, the  severe  gray  of  faded  thistle-stalks 
lent  an  ascetic  contrast.  Sometimes  the 
shadow  of  a  hawk's  wing  etched  a  floating 
picture  on  the  grass,  and  occasionally  a  blue- 
jay's  bright  pinion  lit  up  a  patch  of  sombre 
shrubbery  as  a  blue  flame  will  shine  in  a 
darkened  chamber.  The  woodland  road  lay 
breathless  and  dusty  far  below,  and  in  dense 
thickets  the  earth's  pulsations  heaved  softly 
or  were  still.  In  drowsy  spaces  along  the  hills 
a  soft  wind  drifted  in  and  out,  and  the  leaves 
rose  and  fell  as  the  breeze  lifted  or  sank,  and 
a  smell  of  burned  vines  and  of  ripening  nuts 
was  in  the  air. 

Suddenly  there  came  from  a  distance  the 
bay  of  a  hound  —  "  Woo  -  oo,  woo  -  oop, 
woop !  "  It  was  in  the  indicative  mood.  It 
conveyed  the  idea  of  a  discovery.  The  sound 
came  nearer,  and  over  a  hill,  opposite,  passed 
a  silhouette  of  a  dog,  his  nose  to  the  ground, 
his  whole  attention  directed  to  the  trail.  After 
him  came  others,  and  soon  a  livelier  and 
more  eager  chorus  began  as  the  trail  became 
198 


A  FOX  IN  THE  MERAMEC  VALLEY 

warmer.    "  Boo-oo-oo-woo-Boo-oop,"  swelled 
the  burst  of  dog-music. 

"My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind, 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded;  and  their  heads  are  hung, 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew, 
Crook-kneed  and  dew-lapped,  like  Thessalian  bulls. 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  match'd  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each." 

The  echoes  weave  in  and  out  of  the  trees, 
and  that  fox  is  certainly  somewhere  directly 
across  the  river — stealing  sinuously  among 
those  russet  thickets,  doubtless,  and  probably 
calculating  to  a  nicety  where  the  dogs  will  be 
at  fault;  for  there  is  a  small  creek  that  runs 
into  the  river  at  this  point,  a  mere  brook,  in 
fact,  and  it  will  not  be  presumed  that  Rey- 
nard has  not  taken  advantage  of  this.  He 
has  run  half-way  across  a  log  spanning  it, 
and  then  turned  and  jumped  back  to  the  same 
bank  from  which  he  mounted  the  log.  He 
has  wet  his  feet  in  the  water  and  run  along 
in  the  shallow  edges  of  the  stream  for  a  few 
yards.  Then  he  has  jumped  on  a  leaning 
tree  which  half  crosses  the  narrow  current, 
and  from  there  he  has  jumped  into  the  water 
199 


OUTDOORS 


on  the  opposite  side,  and  waded  along  for 
a  while  before  going  up  on  the  bank.  What 
a  sly  look  he  wears  on  his  crafty  countenance 
as  he  goes  into  the  brush! 

Up  on  the  hills,  back  in  the  fields  and  lanes 
he  has  been  leading  the  dogs  a  merry  chase 
for  some  time.  He  has  run  over  ploughed 
ground  where  the  scent  is  hard  to  carry,  and 
he  has  taken  a  whirl  through  a  flock  of  sheep 
to  throw  the  dogs  from  the  trail.  Along  a 
rocky  hill-side,  where  the  winds  have  swept 
the  stones  bare,  he  has  trotted,  and  on  sev- 
eral occasions  he  has  mounted  fences  and 
sprung  wide  from  them,  leaving  the  wisest  of 
the  pack  in  perplexity  for  a  while.  All  the 
tricks  and  capers  that  his  wily  nature  is  sus- 
ceptible of  he  has  played,  and  still  the  pack 
clings  to  the  trail,  loses  it,  regains  it,  and  the 
chorus  of  their  baying  comes  by  on  the  wings 
of  the  autumn  wind. 

There  is  that  in  the  intonation  of  a  dog's 
cries  that  tells  the  story  of  the  chase.  What 
an  eagerly  voiced  cry  rolls  out  as  the  reeking 
scent  comes  fresh  upon  his  nostrils  I  Then 
swells  the  sound  of  triumph,  the  exultant  bay- 
ing which  foretells  the  approaching  "  death." 
200 


A  FOX  IN  THE  MERAMEC  VALLEY 

But  what  a  disappointed,  mournful  cry  wells 
up  when  the  scent  stops,  and  the  baffled  hound 
comes  to  a  pause.  How  complainingly  he 
starts  again,  the  reproachful  tone  of  his 
music  drifting  along  the  hills.  And  when  he 
is  running  free,  with  the  trail  neither  hot  nor 
cold,  there  is  a  businesslike  twang  to  his  bay- 
ing, as  if  he  were  keeping  the  finer  points 
of  his  music  for  the  more  exciting  phases  of 
the  chase.  Then  there  are  the  shorter  barks 
of  the  puppies,  sanguine,  saucy  notes,  with  a 
tenor  ring  in  them.  At  times  there  is  a 
mingled  uplifting  of  many  hayings,  as  if 
there  were  a  canine  council  of  ways  and 
means,  with  no  moderator  present.  Then 
will  come  the  dying  away  of  most  of  the 
clamor  and  the  grumbling  bass  of  some  old 
hound  as  he  takes  up  the  puzzling  trail  once 
more. 

The  trail  leads  over  the  top  of  the  bluffs, 
and  presently  all  noise  of  the  chase  is  gone. 
A  pair  of  gossiping  red-headed  woodpeck- 
ers swing  up  to  a  dead  sycamore's  trunk  and 
quarrel  petulantly,  with  short  flights  to  other 
trees  and  back  again.  A  solitary  nuthatch 
dips,  ducks,  bobs,  and  hops  about  the  green 
201 


OUTDOORS 


girth  of  an  old  elm,  and  a  buzzard  sails  over 
like  a  loosened  thunder-cloud.  Sumachs  burn 
steadily  on  the  hill-side,  and  along  the  lonely 
road  a  farmer's  wagon  rattles  past.  The 
scent  of  many  woodland  perfumes,  scattered 
from  October's  censer,  swung  by  the  restless 
breeze,  swims  through  the  forest-aisles  and 
settles  on  the  flaming  leaves  that  splotch  the 
tawny  earth.  On  the  river  the  light  descends 
like  a  yellow  leaf  from  above. 

Now  a  new  tumult  sounds  from  the  edge 
of  the  bluffs  farther  on,  a  horseman  appears 
sharply  outlined  against  the  sky,  and  a  hur- 
tling group  of  dogs  sprawl  down  the  slope. 
Again  the  cries  of  the  hounds  throng  in  the 
woods,  rising  and  falling — "  Boo-Roop,  Boo- 
oo-oo  woorp,  Woo-oo-oo-oop !  "  The  crash 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  resounds  through  the 
woods,  and  there  are  calls  from  above,  where 
other  riders  assemble.  The  line  of  dogs 
spreads  over  the  hill,  ascends  and  swings 
down  the  slope,  and  finally  goes  out  and  on 
over  the  bluffs  to  the  fields  again.  And  now 
once  more  the  golden  dreams  of  autumn  set 
sail  from  violet  skies.  Again  a  velvet  veil 
of  utter  languor  falls,  mistlike,  from  the 
202 


A  FOX  IN  THE  MERAMEC  VALLEY 

clouds  and  all  is  silence,  shot  through  with 
myrrh  and  spice  of  wind-swept  woods. 

The  noise  dies  out,  and  wood-birds  call 
From  quiet,  leafy  coverts  dim, 
And  acorns,  from  the  oak-trees  tall, 
Drop,  plummetlike,  from  topmost  limb. 
All  now  is  hushed,  sweet  silence  reigns, 
And  yet  an  echo  seems  to  say, 
Soft  whispering  through  the  fields  and  lanes, 
Gone  away,  away,  gone  away. 


203 


FALL    JACK-SNIPE 
SHOOTING 

TO  many  hunters  the  sport  of  jack- 
snipe  shooting  is  the  finest  of  all 
field  shooting.  There  are  men  who 
have  hunted  the  tiger  in  Ceylon,  the  elephant 
in  Africa,  and  moose,  elk,  grizzly-bear,  and 
antelope  in  America,  who  avow  their  prefer- 
ence for  wild-fowl  shooting  over  any  other 
sport,  and  principally  for  snipe  shooting  at 
its  best.  It  is  a  separate  and  distinct  kind 
of  shooting,  and  in  the  middle  western  states 
it  is  best  in  the  spring,  although  in  the  fall 
the  opportunity  for  using  a  dog  is  better.  The 
jack-snipe  has  what  is  termed  a  "  cold  scent," 
as  distinguished  from  quail  and  other  upland 
birds  whose  scent  is  much  stronger  and  easier 
to  catch  by  the  dog.  In  the  spring  the  snipe 
find  cover  in  shorter  grass  and  reeds,  as  a 
rule,  than  they  frequent  in  the  fall,  and  do 
not  lie  so  close  as  the  autumn  birds  do.  In 
both  seasons  they  are  hunted  in  the  middle, 
204 


FALL   JACK-SNIPE    SHOOTING 

northerly  and  eastern  states,  and  in  the  south 
in  the  winter ;  and  thousands  are  killed  every 
year. 

The  jack-snipe  is  a  most  aristocratic  and 
handsome  bird.  He  is  about  ten  or  eleven 
inches  long,  and  his  wings  will  measure  close 
to  twenty  inches  when  spread.  His  back  is 
dark,  almost  black,  intermingled  with  tawny 
streaks,  while  his  breast  and  sides  are  lighter, 
the  sides  being  light  brown  with  darker 
specks  until  the  belly  is  reached,  and  that 
is  white.  The  tail  is  barred  beautifully, 
and  when  the  bird  stretches  it,  as  he  some- 
times does  when  he  is  shot  and  falls  to  the 
ground,  it  shows  in  a  fan  shape,  something 
like  a  ruffed  grouse's  tail  when  it,  too, 
spreads  its  tail  in  the  death-agony.  The 
jack-snipe  is  built  on  race-horse  lines,  for 
speed  and  agility.  He  is  as  light  on  his  feet 
as  a  thistle-down  is  in  the  air,  and  when  dis- 
turbed he  is  up  and  away  in  a  quick  dart  that 
puts  the  sportsman  on  his  mettle.  In  the  old 
days  it  was  supposed  to  be  the  proper  thing 
to  shoot  a  jack-snipe  at  forty  yards  or  so,  the 
calculation  being  that  the  bird  by  that  time 
would  have  concluded  his  course  of  twisting 
205 


OUTDOORS 


and  dodging  and  have  settled  down  to  a 
steady  flight.  But  the  shooters  of  the  new 
school,  for  the  most  part,  do  not  wait  that 
long.  In  the  first  place,  the  birds  are  appar- 
ently a  trifle  better  educated  now  than  in  the 
days  of  "  auld  lang  syne,"  and  if  a  man 
waited  until  they  were  forty  yards  away  they 
might  take  advantage  of  some  convenient 
clump  of  willows  or  a  hay-stack  or  a  bunch 
of  tall-growing  cane  or  some  one  of  a  number 
of  different  bits  of  cover  to  disappear  from 
sight.  So,  too,  they  are  wilder,  especially  in 
the  spring,  and,  generally  speaking,  they  are 
advanced  in  their  methods.  The  best  way  to 
shoot  snipe  at  ordinary  ranges  of  from  twenty- 
five  to  forty  yards  is  just  when  they  jump. 

Their  flight  is  exceedingly  elusive,  and  men 
who  are  good  quail,  chicken,  and  duck  shots 
may  be  very  poor  performers  on  jack-snipe. 
Once  mastered,  however,  it  is  easy  enough  for 
a  crack  shot  to  get  his  birds  with  quite  a  de- 
gree of  regularity.  As  a -rule  that  meets  with 
few  exceptions,  the  average  of  three  shells 
to  a  bird  when  the  snipe  are  at  all  wild  is  a 
good  average.  But  in  the  fall,  when  the 
birds  lie  closer,  and  when  they  can  be  put 
206 


FALL   JACK-SNIPE    SHOOTING 

up  before  the  dog,  a  man  should  do  bet- 
ter. In  the  fall  snipe  lie  in  higher,  heavier 
cover,  especially  on  windy  and  cold  days,  and 
it  is  beautiful  sport  then.  Take  some  old 
cow-pasture,  wet  and  grown  up  with  cat-tails 
and  a  swampy  and  marshy  growth,  where 
cattle  have  trampled  down  the  cover,  leav- 
ing boggy  spots  here  and  there  through  the 
field,  and  there  the  birds  will  always  be  found 
when  there  are  any  snipe  in  the  country. 
Such  spots  will  be  found  to  be  full  of  snipe 
during  the  season,  and  even  when  the  birds 
are  driven  away  they  will  come  back  again, 
drifting  in  all  day  to  such  a  favorite  haunt. 
On  cold  and  blowy  days  they  will  lie  well 
to  a  dog,  and  a  good  setter  or  pointer  will 
be  able  to  make  a  dozen  points  inside  of 
half  an  hour  in  such  a  field.  One  of  the 
great  beauties  about  snipe  shooting,  so  far  as 
the  getting  of  the  birds  is  concerned,  is  the 
character  of  the  shooting.  It  is  all  single  or 
double  bird  shooting,  as  jack-snipe  do  not 
fly  in  flocks.  Occasionally  a  wisp  of  from 
three  to  five  may  be  seen  flying  over  the 
meadows  together,  but  when  they  light  they 
scatter,  and  when  the  hunter  moves  up  to 
207 


OUTDOORS 


their  vicinity  they  will  rise  singly  or  in  pairs. 
This  gives  a  man  an  opportunity  to  pick  his 
birds  which  no  other  shooting  gives,  for  in 
woodcock  shooting  the  cover  hinders  the 
shooting,  and  in  other  shooting  the  birds  rise 
often  in  a  bunch,  thus  distracting  the  sports- 
man's aim. 

Not  the  least  of  the  charms  of  this  kind  of 
sport  is  the  wonderful  exhilaration  of  the 
open  country.  The  air  comes  fresh  with  the 
breath  and  vigor  of  wide  expanses,  and  the 
sun  beats  full  and  free  on  waving  grass  and 
bending  reeds.  The  brown  cat-tails  stand 
rusty  and  sere  under  autumnal  skies,  and  the 
winds  dance  past  to  the  marsh  edges  and  rip- 
ple over  amber  waters  to  the  water's  edge 
again.  Marsh-hawks  hover  above,  and  some- 
times a  sparrow-hawk  flutters  for  minutes  at 
a  time  without  moving  from  one  space  in 
the  air.  Sometimes  a  clumsy  yellow  bittern 
scrambles  out  of  the  grass  with  a  rush  of 
broad  wings,  stretching  his  long  neck  and 
looking  back  as  if  he  expected  to  be  brought 
down  by  the  hunter  before  he  could  get  out 
of  danger. 

In  the  fall  .the  jack-snipe  have  less  country 
208 


FALL   JACK-SNIPE    SHOOTING 

to  feed  in,  for  the  summer  suns  have  dried 
up  much  of  the  ground  they  occupied  in  the 
spring  months.  In  some  parts  of  the  country 
there  is  no  shooting  except  in  the  spring.  In 
the  autumn  months  these  birds  linger  in  the 
country  until  sometimes  the  ice  rims  the 
edges  of  the  pools  and  chill  winds  sweep 
across  the  pastures.  But  if  the  grass  and 
reeds  afford  cover  high  enough  the  snipe  will 
skulk  in  such  cover,  and  many  a  dozen  of 
splendid,  plump  birds  may  be  shot  when  the 
morning  of  the  day  which  gave  them  their 
quietus  was  cold  and  stormy,  with  ice  on  the 
spring  holes.  But  when  the  sun  comes  out  in 
the  afternoons  and  the  ice  melts,  they  seem 
to  come  back,  and  as  long  as  the  ground  sof- 
tens and  gives  them  good  feeding,  and  the 
cover  shelters  them  from  the  winds,  they 
linger  until  the  advent  of  the  conquering 
snows. 

A  good  dog  will  not  only  enable  a  man 
to  find  birds  better  in  the  fall,  but  he  can 
make  "  doubles  "  when  he  has  a  dog  along, 
trusting  to  the  animal  to  find  all  the  birds  he 
drops.  In  high,  dense  cover,  the  jack-snipe 
is  a  very  hard  bird  to  find.  Indeed,  he  is 
209 


OUTDOORS 


often  lost  in  comparatively  open  places  be- 
cause he  is  so  like  the  cover  he  falls  into. 
But  with  a  good  dog,  whether  he  is  a  re- 
triever or  not,  a  man  will  find  about  all  of 
the  snipe  he  shoots.  When  snipe  are  fairly 
plentiful  the  chance  for  making  "  doubles  " 
presents  itself  constantly,  and  yet,  if  a  man 
is  hunting  without  a  dog,  he  will  lose  many 
birds,  especially  in  thick  cover,  if  he  makes 
"doubles"  and  tries  to  get  the  birds.  The  saf- 
est way  when  shooting  without  a  dog  is  to  get 
your  birds  one  at  a  time,  unless  the  hunter  has 
a  chance  to  shoot  in  fairly  open  cover.  He 
can  then  take  more  chances.  When  he  drops 
his  first  bird  of  a  pair,  let  him  mark  it  down 
by  some  particular  weed,  clump  of  cat-tails, 
or  other  object,  and  then  go  to  where  his  sec- 
ond bird  was  shot  and  drop  a  handkerchief 
where  he  thinks  the  bird  fell.  Then  back  to 
the  first  bird  and  find  that,  if  possible,  at  first. 
In  the  meantime,  if  other  birds  get  up,  and 
they  are  quite  likely  to,  let  him  get  them  one 
at  a  time,  never  forgetting  the  landmark  that 
he  noticed  in  marking  the  first  bird.  If  he 
gets  the  first  bird,  the  second  is  an  easier 
task.  The  handkerchief  will  be  a  base  from 
210 


FALL   JACK-SNIPE    SHOOTING 

which  to  take  observations,  and  by  beating 
around  he  can  usually  find  his  game. 

If  the  birds  are  wild,  it  is  a  good  scheme, 
as  I  have  found  it,  to  use  number  six  shot  in 
the  left-hand  barrel.  Number  eights  in  the 
right-hand  barrel  are  all  right,  but  when  you 
shoot  a  second  time  at  the  same  bird — and 
that  is  something  that  will  happen  to  every 
one — you  may  have  to  shoot  a  long  way  at 
your  bird.  Now  on  windy  days  the  light  shot 
are  at  a  disadvantage.  And  it  is  surprising, 
and  at  the  same  time  instructive,  to  see  how 
many  birds  a  man  can  shoot  with  number  sixes 
if  he  holds  his  gun  right.  If  you  will  hold 
your  gun  so  that  a  jack-snipe  is  in  the  centre 
of  the  pattern  of  a  load  of  sixes  he  will  not 
get  away.  Some  of  the  shot  will  hit  him,  and 
generally  one  is  enough  if  it  hits  him  in  the 
body,  wing,  or  any  place  but  the  leg. 

Some  hunters  invariably  use  hip-boots  in 
snipe  shooting,  while  others  stick  to  rubber 
knee-boots.  The  water  may  not  be  very  deep 
along  the  "  slues,"  or  in  the  pastures  and 
around  the  marshes  where  the  snipe  lie,  as 
they  feed  in  the  vicinity  of  the  shallowest 
pools  and  wet  spots.  But  you  will  sometimes 

211 


OUTDOORS 


come  to  a  place  where  you  will  want  to  go  in 
almost  waist-deep,  in  order  to  reach  other 
territory.  And  at  times  you  are  obliged  to 
shoot  a  bird  over  water,  where  you  would 
lose  him  if  you  could  not  wade  in  and  re- 
trieve him.  But  rubber  boots  are  hard  on 
the  feet,  and  if  you  do  not  care  to  use  the 
mackintosh  wading-trousers  with  a  rubber 
boot  at  the  end,  wear  the  heaviest  leggings 
you  can  get,  firmly  clamped  down  on  a  stout 
shoe,  and  wade  in  and  take  whatever  ducking 
you  happen  to  meet.  Wear  as  light  clothing 
as  possible,  for  the  tramping  will  be  exten- 
sive. A  sixteen-gauge  gun  will  do  nicely  for 
snipe  shooting,  although  my  preference  is  for 
a  twelve-gauge. 

As  to  the  number  of  birds  to  be  killed  in  a 
day,  there  are  different  restrictions  in  various 
states,  and  divers  ideas  among  sportsmen  in 
different  parts  of  the  country.  No  matter  if 
they  are  as  thick  as  blackbirds  —  and  it  is 
wonderful  how  plentiful  jack-snipe  may  be 
at  times — twenty-five  birds  are  enough  for  a 
day's  shooting  for  one  man. 


212 


IN    DIM    OCTOBER 

BACK  of  the  crumbling  farm-house  was 
an  orchard,  and  back  of  that,  the 
woods.  We  took  a  drink  of  well- 
water  from  a  bucket  that  had  just  been  hauled 
up,  and  then  started  for  the  timber.  The  trees 
in  the  orchard  were  ruddy  with  fruit,  and 
some  of  it  that  had  been  blown  down  by 
gusty  winds  had  marks  where  the  jaybirds 
and  woodpeckers  had  been  sampling  it.  Be- 
tween the  woods  and  the  orchard  there  was 
a  genuine  stake-and-rider  fence.  As  tedious 
as  it  is  to  mount  one  of  these,  it  is  highly  pref- 
erable to  the  barb-wire  monstrosities  that  scar 
the  land  in  so  many  places.  A  little  stretch 
of  clover  was  at  its  edge,  and  from  among  a 
strip  of  corn  a  crook-necked  squash  and  two 
pumpkins  glowed.  An  old  and  half-blind  dog 
followed  us  to  the  fence  and  then  turned 
back.  It  was  absolutely  a  perfect  Indian- 
summer  day,  a  mass  of  color,  a  dream  of  sun- 
shine. 

213 


OUTDOORS 


As  we  got  over  the  fence,  a  convenient  log 
lay  at  the  edge  of  the  oaks,  and,  resting  there 
a  moment,  we  saw  a  chipmunk  dart  from  a 
crevice  in  the  fence  and  poise  himself  on  his 
hind  legs.  How  graceful  he  was!  Striped, 
alert,  saucy,  and  inquisitive.  He  would  run 
with  incredible  swiftness  for  a  few  yards, 
stop,  arch  his  body,  look  back,  and  then  glide 
along  again  as  smooth  as  a  snake.  He  would 
pick  up  an  acorn  or  a  nut,  hold  it  after  the 
manner  of  the  squirrel  tribe,  gnaw  at  it  a 
moment,  release  his  hold,  and  then  stand 
with  his  beady  eyes  glittering.  He  would 
run  close  to  our  log,  and  then  slip  into  the 
short  bushes  and  disappear  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  vary  the  performance  by 
running  back  and  forth  across  the  path.  It 
was  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  small  boy 
"  turning  cart-wheels,"  "  skinning  the  cat," 
and  showing  off  generally. 

At  the  side  of  the  path,  as  we  turned  into 
the  woods,  a  garter-snake,  slender  and  bright- 
colored,  wormed  into  the  short  grass,  and  on 
being  closely  approached,  opened  its  mouth 
and  silently  sent  its  tongue  scintillating  back 
and  forth  in  a  series  of  quick  movements.  It 
214 


IN    DIM    OCTOBER 


was  a  badly  frightened  reptile,  but  as  we 
were  mercifully  inclined  toward  such  a  harm- 
less member  of  the  snake  kingdom,  it  soon 
dodged  into  taller  cover  and  we  saw  it  no 
more. 

On  a  slope  among  the  heavy  timber  we 
paused  by  a  giant  oak-tree  and  sat  down  to 
wait.  The  trees  here  were  mostly  oaks,  with 
a  few  hickories  scattered  farther  along,  where 
the  hill  beyond  showed  dimly  through  the 
timber.  The  tints  on  the  leaves  were  very 
gorgeous.  The  foliage  had  not  been  thinned 
to  any  extent  by  frosts  and  was  yet  thick 
on  the  branches,  and  some  of  it  was  even  yet 
green  with  the  youth  of  the  late  summer. 
But  for  a  long  distance  in  every  direction 
there  was  a  vast  drapery  of  the  most  vivid 
red,  russet,  yellow — with  hundreds  of  varia- 
tions in  these  colors.  It  had  the  effect  of  a 
painted  wood.  And  there  was  something 
of  a  funereal  grandeur  to  it  all,  as  though 
autumn  had  flung  herself  on  the  funeral  pyre 
of  a  dead  season  to  fill  the  spaces  with  the 
glory  of  her  blazing  sacrifice.  There  were 
aisles  and  niches  hung  thick  with  splendid 
garlands,  and  paths  brilliant  with  spendthrift 
215 


OUTDOORS 


leaves,  whose  garish  hues  lent  contrast  to  the 
thick  green  grass.  A  jaybird's  wing  went 
unnoticed  across  this  panorama;  the  very 
wing  of  a  cardinal,  were  he  flying  past,  would 
have  been  swallowed  in  this  sea  of  color. 

The  gnarled  and  twisted  oaks  were  bathed 
in  a  tide  of  yellow  sunlight  that  dreamed 
drowsily  among  all  this  beauty,  and  the  air 
was  hushed  and  the  winds  folded  down  into 
utter  quiet.  Only  the  tiny  gray  sapsuckers 
dipped,  ducked,  and  bobbed  about  on  the 
tree-trunks,  and  their  movements  were  as 
noiseless  as  those  of  spiders.  There  was  a 
cathedral-like  nobility  in  these  great  spaces, 
with  a  suggestion  of  stilled  music,  the  faces 
of  sculptured  saints,  the  ghosts  of  Druidical 
ceremonies.  The  breath  of  morning  brooded 
in  the  shadowy  places,  and  the  steps  of  noon 
came  slowly  up  the  eastern  hills.  It  was  a 
day  snatched  from  paradise — a  day  of  days. 

Presently  the  harsh  cry  of  a  crow  sounded 
and  his  black  wings  for  an  instant  flung  a 
shadow  on  the  grass.  Then  the  "  skir  "  of 
a  hawk  came  in  a  challenging  tone,  and  a 
broader  shadow  followed  where  the  crow's 
flight  had  gone.  Then  all  was  deeper  silence 
216 


IN    DIM    OCTOBER 


than  before,  and  the  woods  dilated  in  the 
streams  of  golden  sunshine  that  ebbed  and 
flowed  on  a  coast  of  shimmering  leaves.  Be- 
low us,  and  to  one  side,  a  tamarack  swamp 
stood,  some  of  the  trees  long  since  dead, 
their  bristly  forms  standing  stark  in  the  sun- 
light. Back  of  them  and  on  either  hand  there 
were  dense  masses  of  living  tamaracks,  their 
green  colors  sharply  contrasting  with  the  oaks 
and  hickories.  At  the  edge  of  the  swamp 
there  were  great  quantities  of  sumach,  their 
russet  globes  still  partially  hidden  by  the  scar- 
let leaves.  In  this  swamp  the  sun  had  little 
opportunity  to  enter,  as  the  trees  stood  like 
serried  lances,  thickly  huddled  and  shadowy. 
This  swamp  on  one  side  was  skirted  by  a 
small  pool,  and  there  some  rusted  cat-tails 
rose,  their  blades  broken  and  drooping,  their 
heads  rising  stiff  in  the  October  air. 

We  moved  deeper  into  the  timber,  and 
everywhere  was  this  lavish  festooning,  this 
bewildering  array  of  tints  that  shone  and 
glinted  in  the  sun.  A  rabbit  jumped  up 
from  a  glare  of  dazzling  bushes  and  scurried 
through  the  brush,  the  cover  rustling  as  he 
fled.  Beyond  the  woods  as  we  reached  an 
217 


OUTDOORS 


open  space  there  was  a  glimpse  of  corn- 
shocks  standing  brown  and  packed  on  a  hill- 
side. Still  farther  on  was  a  rolling  green 
meadow,  and  beyond  that  a  lake  of  consider- 
able size.  Turning  to  the  left  we  found  a 
wood  of  small  trees,  their  colorings  as  bright 
as  any  in  the  larger  timber.  Every  bush  and 
vine  was  in  holiday  attire.  The  occasional 
green  splotches  added  a  pleasing  variety  to 
the  effect. 

Overhead  the  skies  were  cloudless,  a 
never-ending  expanse  of  blue.  Sometimes  in 
this  smaller  timber  there  would  be  a  rus- 
tling ahead  that  told  of  the  disturbing  of  a 
rabbit,  and  once  a  fox-squirrel  scampered 
across  a  path  and  trailed  up  a  hickory,  jump- 
ing from  that  to  an  oak,  and  finally  going  out 
of  sight  around  the  trunk  of  the  oak.  We 
followed  him  and  finally  discovered  him  at 
the  very  top  of  the  tree.  The  wind  by  this 
time  had  blown  up  quite  a  breeze,  and  this 
squirrel,  a  young  one,  was  clinging  to  the 
uppermost  twigs.  The  wind  blew  him  back 
and  forth,  and  he  swayed  a  brown  shadow 
among  the  leaves.  At  times  the  wind  would 
swing  his  long,  red  tail  out  from  his  body, 
218 


IN    DIM    OCTOBER 


and  then  he  was  more  plainly  outlined.  We 
shouted  at  him  and  threw  sticks  at  him,  which 
fell  short  of  his  retreat  by  many  yards,  but 
he  did  not  mind  our  efforts  in  the  least.  We 
left  him  riding  in  the  wind,  his  bushy  tail 
flaunted  tauntingly  down. 

Cattle  grazing  in  the  woods  stared  at  us 
as  we  went  along,  and  some  of  the  more  curi- 
ous of  the  cows  attended  us  to  the  next  fence. 
The  quality  of  curiosity  is  very  strongly  de- 
veloped in  the  lower  animals,  and  a  colt,  a 
cow,  or  a  pig  will  often  follow  a  person 
patiently  for  a  long  time  merely  on  that  ac- 
count. As  we  crossed  a  marshy  strip  of 
ground  between  two  reaches  of  timber,  a 
lank  heron  scrambled  up  from  the  reeds  and 
started  away,  its  awkward  flight  and  hanging 
legs  making  a  quaint  picture  as  it  went.  On 
the  edges  of  this  wet  spot  there  were  a  num- 
ber of  small  frogs,  and  it  did  not  need  a 
shrewd  guess  to  warrant  the  assumption  that 
the  heron  had  been  a-frogging.  The  grass 
here  was  still  thick  and  green,  showing  the 
mildness  of  the  season  so  far,  and  only  here 
and  there  was  it  tinged  with  russet  or  tawny 
splotches.  There  was  not  a  sign  of  a  dragon- 
219 


OUTDOORS 


fly,  and  there  were  no  tadpoles  to  wriggle 
inkily  in  the  amber  water.  By  the  side  of  the 
grass,  where  a  single  flower  stood,  a  lone 
butterfly  poised,  his  bright  variegated  wings 
moving  slowly  back  and  forth  as  he  rested  on 
the  flower.  Here  was  a  waif  of  summer 
whose  temerity  was  like  to  meet  a  killing 
frost  before  long. 

The  paths  among  the  trees  were  dimmed 
by  leaves  of  many  colors,  and  yet  the  foliage 
seemed  thicker  than  in  days  of  June.  On 
the  one  wagon-road  that  stretched  through 
the  forest  dust  lay  thick,  and  the  trace  of 
wheels  was  indistinct  occasionally  and  faintly 
outlined  sometimes  again  on  the  sod  along 
each  side  of  the  road.  Once  a  farm-wagon 
bounced  and  clattered  past  and  when  it  was 
gone  the  woods  settled  into  a  more  positive 
stillness.  At  the  edge  of  the  timber  we  came 
across  a  troop  of  robins,  and  they  flew  over 
the  pastures  and  away  toward  the  tamaracks. 
At  a  pasture's  corner,  next  to  one  strip  of 
woods,  there  came  the  sweet  note  of  a  blue- 
bird for  a  brief  moment,  and  eight  of  them, 
their  wings  flashing  in  the  sun,  flew  southward 
high  in  air. 

220 


IN    DIM    OCTOBER 


As  the  day  waned,  long  troops  of  black- 
birds flew  over,  making  for  the  marshes  at 
Grass  Lake.  They  flew  high,  well  out  of  the 
range  of  guns  for  the  most  part,  although 
scattered  groups  would  occasionally  dip  low 
and  sweep  close  in  to  the  trees.  Some  of  them 
gossiped  as  they  went  by,  but  the  cow-birds 
came  and  went  like  shadows,  leaving  the 
noisier  red-wings  to  herald  the  flight.  The 
sun  went  down  in  red  and  gold.  Then  twi- 
light crept  after  swiftly,  and  the  woods  began 
to  lose  their  glory  in  the  haze  of  approaching 
nightfall. 


221 


RUFFED  GROUSE 

THE  ruffed  grouse,  sometimes  called 
partridge,  "  cock  of  the  woods,"  or 
pheasant,  have  a  wide  range  of  hab- 
itat in  the  United  States,  no  less  than  twenty- 
six  of  the  states  mentioning  them  in  their 
game-laws.  They  range  from  Maine  on  the 
north  to  Dakota  on  the  west,  south  to  Vir- 
ginia, and  are  in  most  of  the  central  and 
northern  central  states.  They  are  probably 
the  hardiest  birds  in  many  respects  of  the 
grouse  family.  I  have  never  heard  of  one  of 
them  being  frozen,  however  severe  the  win- 
ter, and  have  been  out  hunting  when  traces  of 
their  scratching  would  be  found,  which  indi- 
cated that  they  were  digging  down  over  a 
foot  in  the  snow  to  get  at  buried  rose-buds  or 
the  roots  of  willows.  What  they  live  on 
when  the  snow  is  deep  is  a  mystery  to  many 
of  those  who  have  travelled  in  the  woods 
where  they  are  found;  but  live  they  do,  and 
apparently  thrive. 

222 


RUFFED    GROUSE 


The  foliage  in  autumn  is  so  thick  in  the 
woods  (and  the  ruffed  grouse  is  rarely 
found  in  the  open)  that  hunting  him  is  a  very 
difficult  matter.  In  the  places  he  frequents 
the  trees  are  usually  close  enough  together  to 
make  it  practically  a  sheet  of  leaves  during 
much  of  the  time  he  may  be  shot.  And  no 
bird  in  the  timber  is  harder  to  bring  down 
than  this  same  ruffed  grouse.  His  flight 
is  very  swift,  strong,  and  hard  to  stop  as  he 
whizzes  through  the  woods.  He  seems  to  be 
able  to  get  past  the  trees  without  the  slightest 
difficulty,  and,  like  the  woodcock,  has  the 
happy  faculty  of  putting  a  tree-trunk  between 
himself  and  the  sportsman  when  opportunity 
offers.  The  most  difficult  shot  I  know  of,  in 
all  the  experience  I  have  had  in  wing-shoot- 
ing, is  the  shot  at  a  ruffed  grouse  as  he  dives 
from  some  tall  tree  to  the  cover  below.  It 
is  the  hardest  angle  to  gauge  successfully  that 
I  ever  tackled.  Ruffed  grouse  also  make 
very  deceiving  marks  when  they  fly  straight- 
away, either  up  or  down  hill.  If  it  is  an  up- 
hill shot,  the  novice  usually  shoots  too  low, 
and  under  the  bird.  If  it  is  a  down-hill  shot, 
he  is  apt  to  shoot  behind  the  grouse.  In  a 
223 


OUTDOORS 


number  of  the  states  they  have  become  very 
scarce  where  not  many  years  ago  they  were 
comparatively  plentiful.  Just  why,  it  is  not 
so  easy  to  determine. 

Of  course,  they  have  been  relentlessly 
hunted;  but  so  have  the  prairie-chickens.  It 
is  not  because  they  have  been  frozen  out  by 
the  severe  winters,  for  the  very  Indians  them- 
selves have  no  more  endurance  and  stoicism 
than  the  ruffed  grouse.  The  woods  are  there 
yet,  and  to  a  great  extent  the  chance  for  get- 
ting a  living  is  as  good,  but  many  thousands 
of  acres  of  timber-land  near  the  railroads  are 
almost  entirely  deserted  by  the  birds.  It  may 
be  that  the  gradual  destruction  of  the  under- 
brush and  the  cleaning-up  of  the  woods  by 
the  habit  of  making  them  pasture-grounds 
have  made  the  birds  leave.  At  any  rate,  they 
are  gone,  where  twenty  years  ago  they  were 
found  in  very  large  numbers.  Restocking 
the  woods  might  be  the  means  of  afford- 
ing occasional  shooting,  but  where  the  tim- 
ber has  been  denuded  of  the  brush  ruffed 
grouse  will  not  stay  in  any  numbers.  They 
are  sometimes  found  in  tamarack  swamps 
around  lakes  in  the  hilly  portions  of  the 
224 


RUFFED    GROUSE 


country  and  in  the  woods  along  streams  and 
rivers. 

The  ruffed  grouse  is  a  true  game-bird, 
lying  well  to  the  dog,  and  giving  exciting 
sport  wherever  found  in  numbers  large 
enough  to  furnish  fair  shooting.  In  some 
states  he  is  found  in  the  same  cover  with 
quail,  and  the  hunters  there  get  them  when 
hunting  for  the  latter  bird.  In  other  regions 
of  America  the  quail  have  nearly  all  disap- 
peared in  the  grouse-country,  the  cold  winters 
having  frozen  them  out  or  driven  them  to 
more  temperate  portions  of  the  country. 
Like  that  of  the  quail,  his  flesh  is  white,  in- 
clined to  be  a  trifle  dry,  and  very  delicious 
eating.  Like  other  grouse,  they  go  in  coveys, 
although  in  many  places  they  have  become  so 
scarce  that  a  single  old  cock  or  a  pair  of 
birds  is  about  all  a  man  will  find  in  walking 
through  the  average  "  neck  of  woods." 

Their  colors  are  dark  brown,  blended  with 
gray  and  with  black,  and  they  have  a  crest  on 
top  of  the  head.  The  ruffs  are  a  prominent 
feature  of  the  bird's  appearance,  and  are 
two  in  number,  one  on  each  side  of  the 
neck.  They  are  composed  of  from  twenty  to 
225 


OUTDOORS 


thirty  feathers  each,  and  the  bird  takes  its 
name  from  them.  The  tail  is  long,  broad, 
and  banded,  and  when  stretched  out  and 
dried  makes  a  handsome  fan.  The  ruffed 
grouse  is  about  sixteen  to  eighteen  inches 
long,  and  will  weigh  from  two  to  two  and 
a  half  or  three  pounds.  He  is  an  exceed- 
ingly handsome  bird,  excelling  the  pinnated 
grouse  or  prairie-chicken  vastly  in  this  re- 
spect. His  wings  are  short  and  rounded  and 
capable  of  surprising  bursts  of  speed.  There 
is  no  lumbering  awkwardness  when  this  bird 
rises,  as  after  the  manner  of  the  prairie- 
chicken.  He  springs  from  the  brush  with  the 
speed  of  a  rocket  and  it  takes  quick  shooting 
to  get  him.  To  make  a  "  double  "  on  ruffed 
grouse  in  thick  cover  is  one  of  the  most  diffi- 
cult feats  in  shot-gun  shooting.  They  are 
strong  birds  and  require  to  be  hard  hit  to  be 
brought  down,  unless  when  a  stray  shot 
breaks  a  wing  or  hits  them  on  the  head  or 
neck.  Like  other  birds  of  the  grouse  family 
and  the  quail,  the  ruffed  grouse  when  struck 
in  the  head,  if  not  killed  outright,  will 
"  tower,"  as  it  is  called,  flying  straight  up 
into  the  air  to  quite  a  height.  When  a  hunter 
226 


RUFFED    GROUSE 


sees  a  grouse  "  tower,"  all  he  has  to  do  is  to 
watch  where  the  bird  falls.  When  he  finds 
the  game  it  will  be  a  case  of  "  dead  bird." 

In  the  alder  bushes  and  in  the  foot-hills 
of  eastern  mountains  I  have  found  the  birds 
in  flocks  of  from  a  dozen  to  twenty  grouse. 
The  natives  sometimes  hunted  them  there 
with  a  cur-dog  and  a  shot-gun  or  rifle.  The 
dog  ran  ahead  and  scared  the  birds  up  into 
the  trees,  barking  at  them  vigorously  after 
they  were  treed.  The  grouse  would  not  fly, 
but  would  watch  the  dog.  The  hunter,  ac- 
cording to  the  stories  told  to  me,  would 
slip  along  as  soon  as  he  heard  the  dog  bark- 
ing and  "  pot  "  the  birds  as  they  sat  on  the 
limbs.  When  a  shot-gun  was  used  the  flock 
would  generally  fly  after  one  or  two  shots; 
but  with  a  small  rifle  a  number  of  birds  could 
be  shot  from  one  flock  by  shooting  the  under 
birds  first  and  the  scattered  ones  and  keeping 
perfectly  quiet.  If  these  tales  were  true,  it 
was  a  murderous  way  of  getting  grouse,  not 
much  better  than  snaring  them  with  "  twitch- 
ups,"  and  gave  the  birds  not  the  slightest 
chance  for  their  lives. 

The  "  drumming  "  of  the  ruffed  grouse  is  a 
227 


OUTDOORS 


peculiar  habit  of  his,  and  has  been  the  subject 
of  more  discussion  and  dispute  than  almost 
anything  else  except  the  merits  of  dogs.  I 
have  heard  this  "  drumming  "  in  New  Hamp- 
shire forests,  and  in  the  woods  of  Iowa,  Min- 
nesota, Wisconsin,  Indiana,  and  other  states. 
I  have  flushed  grouse  from  near  huge  bowl- 
ders, and  from  the  vicinity  of  fallen  logs, 
but  never  saw  one  in  the  very  act  of  "  drum- 
ming," although  within  a  few  feet  of  them 
several  times  while  the  "  drum-beats  "  rever- 
berated through  the  timber.  The  "  boom- 
ing "  of  the  prairie-chicken  or  pinnated  grouse 
is  acknowledged  to  be  produced  from  the 
bird's  throat,  but  how  the  partridge  does  his 
"  drumming  "  is  a  mooted  question.  But  he 
does  "  drum,"  and  the  resonant  woodland 
roll  of  the  tattoo  is  one  of  the  striking  sounds 
of  nature,  as  are  the  sonorous  notes  of  the 
bull-frogs. 

"  The  hills  were  brown,  the  heavens  were  blue; 

A  woodpecker  pounded  a  pine-top  shell, 
While  a  partridge  whistled  the  whole  day  through 

For  a  rabbit  to  dance  in  the  chaparral; 
And  a  gray  grouse  drummed:  'All'swell!     AH'swell!'" 

Like  the  quail,  the  ruffed  grouse  is  suscep- 
228 


RUFFED    GROUSE 


tible  to  deceit,  and  he  is  trapped  and  snared 
in  the  eastern  and  northern  states  particu- 
larly in  great  numbers  by  farmer-boys  and 
by  the  market-hunters.  He  is  especially  fool- 
ish about  snares  and  puts  his  head  into  them 
with  a  fatuous  confidence  that  is  rapidly  thin- 
ning out  his  numbers,  even  where  he  was  once 
numerous.  Only  the  most  rigid  application 
of  a  non-selling  game-law  will  effect  any  ade- 
quate improvement  in  the  situation.  When 
the  deep  snows  come  he  is  sufficiently  hard 
pushed  to  take  almost  any  chance  to  get  food, 
and  box-traps  and  "  figure  fours  "  take  him 
in  out  of  the  inclement  weather  into  the  hos- 
pitable frying-pan  with  dismal  frequency. 
Yet,  like  all  the  grouse  family  nearly,  he 
shows  great  cunning  when  wing-tipped,  and 
he  is  sagacious  enough  when  hunted.  But 
the  traps  and  the  snares  are  too  much  for  him 
and  are  responsible  in  great  measure  for  his 
depreciated  and  depreciating  numbers. 

Hunting  ruffed  grouse  requires  about  the 
same  paraphernalia  as  in  ordinary  quail  shoot- 
ing, except  that  number  six  shot  instead  of 
nines  or  eights  should  be  used.  A  twelve- 
gauge  gun  is  heavy  enough,  and  a  good  dog 
229 


OUTDOORS 


of  either  pointer  or  setter  blood  will  answer. 
The  setter  in  ragged  cover  will  stand  the 
going  better,  and  in  most  ruffed  grouse  cover 
there  will  be  water  enough  so  that  a  setter 
can  get  a  drink  occasionally. 


230 


IN    PRAIRIE-LANDS 

THE  glory  of  the  prairies  of  old,  like 
that  of  Ichabod,  has  departed,  save 
that  in  the  far  north-west  there  still 
remains  the  wilderness,  untrampled  by  the 
hoofs  of  cattle,  unscarred  by  the  steel  of  the 
ploughshare.  In  some  of  the  Minnesota  and 
Dakota  counties  many  a  mile  of  virgin  prairie 
lies,  with  bronzed  masses  of  true  prairie-grass 
waving  about  the  sod,  and  ironweed  and 
resinweed  mingling  with  its  harsh  masses. 
There,  in  the  remote  solemnity  of  the  hills, 
walled  in  by  the  bluest  of  distant  horizons, 
the  waste  lands  dream  of  the  days  that  were, 
when  all  the  earth  was  wilderness  and  the 
hand  of  the  white  man  had  not  blotted  out 
the  vision.  On  these  huge  mounds  the  buf- 
falo roamed,  cropping  thick  grasses  and  drink- 
ing at  the  streams  and  pools  that  were  scat- 
tered among  valleys  which  lay  between  the 
slopes.  Their  numbers  ranged  into  hundreds 
of  thousands,  and  now  all  that  is  left  is  tra- 
231 


OUTDOORS 


dition  and  a  leaven  of  dust  from  their  bones 
deep  sunken  in  the  yielding  soil. 

The  deer  and  antelope  were  there  then, 
and  the  great  gray  wolf,  fast  following  on 
their  trail.  Millions  of  wild-fowl  bred  in  or 
frequented  the  lakes  and  rivers,  and  the  roar 
of  their  wings  in  the  spring  and  the  fall  was 
as  the  rumble  of  thunder  before  a  summer 
shower.  The  white  bulk  of  swans,  the  wedge- 
shaped  phalanx  of  the  wild-goose,  dotted 
the  heavens  in  their  annual  flight,  and  the 
darker  hordes  of  brant  swept  down  on  the 
bosom  of  the  waters  and  gabbled  among 
the  reeds  of  the  northern  wilderness.  The 
beaver  built  in  the  lakes  and  creeks  and 
the  fox  prowled  among  the  thickets  about 
the  lakes.  The  prairie-hens  rose  from  the 
grass  in  great  coveys  and  sharp-tailed  grouse 
flew  over  and  back  from  the  surrounding 
hills.  The  jack-rabbit,  quaintest  of  the  deni- 
zens of  the  prairie-lands,  sat  with  his  long 
ears  extended,  listening  for  the  approach  of 
any  one  of  his  numerous  foes.  Game  was 
everywhere.  In  the  lakes  amid  the  dome- 
shaped  mounds  the  muskallunge,  the  giant 
pike,  sprang  up  from  the  lily-pads  or  lurked 
232 


IN    PRAIRIE-LANDS 


close  to  sandy  shores.  Bass  swarmed  in  the 
colder  lakes  and  wall-eyed  pike  were  taken  by 
the  Indians,  with  the  bow  or  spear. 

From  one  end  of  the  land  to  the  other  the 
Sioux  roamed — proud,  revengeful,  and  suspi- 
cious. Then  the  smoke  of  the  council-fires 
rose  and  the  skin  tepees  of  Indian  villages 
shone  brown  in  the  sun.  Tethered-out  ponies 
cropped  the  prairies  and  little  pappooses  lay 
wrapped  in  their  curious  pouches,  silent  and 
stoical.  War  and  pillage  were  the  order  of 
those  days.  As  the  settlers  began  to  drift  in 
and  jealousies  seethed  and  smoldered  and 
burned,  the  fire  of  passion  sprang  up  in  the 
breast  of  both  white  man  and  red,  and  the 
land  was  drenched  in  blood  and  ablaze  with 
the  light  of  burning  dwellings.  The  Sioux 
uprising  came  like  a  searing  flash  of  lightning 
across  the  northern  steppes  and  the  edifice 
of  northern  civilization  was  christened  and 
consecrated  by  the  sacrifices  of  the  early 
pioneers. 

The  sword  was  beaten  into  the  plough- 
share, the  bayonet  into  the  reaping-hook,  and 
slowly  but  inevitably  the  course  of  progress, 
stayed  for  a  moment  by  the  fierce  hand  of  the 

233 


OUTDOORS 


aborigine,  swept  resistlessly  over  the  land. 
Roads  cut  their  way  over  the  hills,  and  the 
white-topped  wagons  of  the  early  settlers 
came  eagerly  in  search  of  the  unbroken  acres 
of  the  north.  Log-houses,  rude  and  one- 
storied,  topped  the  hills  in  scant  force,  and 
from  their  clay-daubed  chimneys  the  smoke  of 
a  white  race  had  followed  the  dying  camp- 
fires  of  the  red  men.  Agriculture  was  level- 
ling forests,  building  homes,  ripping  up  the 
prairies  in  every  direction  and  driving  before 
it  the  buffalo,  the  bear,  the  wolf,  antelope, 
and  beaver.  Cattle  drank  at  the  streams 
where  the  buffalo  had  wallowed,  and  the  out- 
lines of  the  first  farms,  faint  but  prophetic, 
were  spread  upon  the  canvas  of  rolling  and 
lonely  prairies. 

The  moccasined  foot  of  the  Indian  turned 
to  the  far  west,  and,  except  as  an  occasional 
wanderer,  he  was  seen  no  more.  The  teem- 
ing life  of  the  billowy  plains  went  with  him, 
and  the  shriek  of  the  locomotive  came  to 
startle  the  wilds  where  the  war-whoop  had 
sounded.  The  canvas  covers  of  the  "  prairie- 
schooners  "  faded  from  the  roads,  the  free 
acres  of  primal  days  were  all  taken  up,  and 

234 


IN    PRAIRIE-LANDS 


as  years  rolled  on  the  traces  of  the  original 
prairies  were  almost  all  blotted  out.  But 
there  still  rests  in  remote  corners  of  this  region 
the  recollection  of  tameless  tribes  and  ancient 
days,  the  flavor  of  times  when  never  a  shod 
hoof  of  beast  dinted  the  grasses,  and  no  face 
but  the  copper-colored  face  of  the  savage  was 
ever  seen. 

Standing  on  one  of  the  great  hills  of  the 
north-west  and  looking  out  over  the  yet 
trackless  miles  of  uncultivated  prairies,  there 
is  the  glamour  of  the  past  in  the  air,  a  halo 
of  by-gone  years  faintly  discernible  in  the 
clouds  that  hang  above.  These  vast  amphi- 
theatres have  all  the  significance  of  banquet- 
halls  deserted,  with  floors  of  level  grasses  and 
folding  draperies  of  sky  and  cloud.  What 
panoramas  of  moving  Indian  villages  and 
battle-etched  pages  the  old  days  furnish! 
Now  there  are  only  long  reaches  of  tumbled 
hills,  grass-lined,  and  the  galloping  tread  of 
the  winds.  There  is  here,  and  here  only, 
that  sense  of  outdoors  which '  the  treeless 
stretches  of  the  prairie  give,  extending  on  as 
a  sea,  till  the  far-off  horizon  drops  like  a  cur- 
tain to  meet  it.  Great  forests  do  not  bring 
235 


OUTDOORS 


this  feeling,  nor  does  the  ocean,  when  one  is 
out  of  sight  of  land.  It  is  not  a  feeling  of 
desolation,  but  one  of  age,  as  if  the  world 
were  a  million  times  more  ancient  than  man 
had  ever  pictured  it,  and  on  the  bosoms  of 
these  hills  lay  brooding  the  shadows  of  un- 
counted centuries. 

When  the  sun  shines  here  he  seems  to  send 
his  beams  down  from  remoter  heights  than 
elsewhere.  There  is  a  strange  familiarity  in 
the  shapes  of  the  rolling  mounds,  as  though 
they  might  be  the  forms  of  mighty  mammoths 
engulfed  by  some  prehistoric  tide,  which  lay 
down  as  the  floods  swept  across  them,  per- 
ished there,  and  became  encysted  in  the  debris 
of  the  cycles  that  followed.  On  still  days 
there  is  a  mournfulness  that  appeals  to  the  im- 
agination keenly.  Bird  life  is  very  rare,  only 
the  black  wake  of  the  buzzard,  the  varying 
slants  of  a  hawk's  wing,  and  the  flights  of 
wild- fowl  to  paint  the  skies;  no  last-year's 
nests  or  stray  feathers  to  tell  of  song-birds 
lingering  there.  There  is  something  high, 
austere,  and  calm  about  these  dumb  wastes. 
Down  in  the  valleys  the  winds  sleep  by  shal- 
low creeks  or  hide  in  the  rushes  that  line  the 
236 


IN    PRAIRIE-LANDS 


shores  of  the  secluded  lakes  among  the  hills. 
On  the  tops  of  the  mounds  the  ironweed 
stands  stiffly  erect,  the  sun's  rays  beating 
across  until  weeds  and  grasses  both  are  burned 
to  darkest  brown. 

When  the  winds  blow  they  will  often  con- 
tinue all  day  long  and  in  many  moods  and 
keys.  Sometimes  they  smooth  the  grass  in 
one  direction  as  a  mother  might  smooth  her 
children's  hair;  sometimes  they  tumble  the 
weeds  and  flowers  and  tilt  the  grass  as  if  they 
sought  something  which  was  hidden  beneath. 
But  always  the  breath  of  these  breezes  is  as 
pure  as  spring-water.  They  come  for  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  and  bear  on  their  wings  an 
aroma  of  flowers  and  streams,  a  tang  of  resin- 
weeds,  and  the  odor  of  nameless  dried  prairie- 
grasses.  When  the  sun  catches  the  grass  as 
the  wind  sweeps  it  aside,  myriad  pictures  flash 
and  fade.  Steadily  as  the  folds  of  a  far- 
flung  banner  the  tall  growth  of  the  prairies 
flaps  in  the  gales  that  swing  across  the  hills, 
and  sun  and  clouds  beyond  lift  and  dip  as  the 
winds  go  by,  and  lend  a  change  of  form  and 
color  to  each  flying  moment. 

Over  it  all  the  life  that  was  casts  spectral 
237 


OUTDOORS 


shadows.  The  white  top  of  a  wagon  goes 
past,  with  tow-headed  children  peeping  from 
the  sides;  the  smoke  of  a  camp-fire  steals  up 
in  the  colorless  air;  the  ring  of  an  axe  sounds 
faintly;  the  feathered  war-bonnet  of  a  Sioux 
chief  gleams  in  a  tuft  of  sun-illumined  grass; 
vanished  hordes  of  buffalo  thunder  down  a 
distant  slope,  and  shots  of  battle  echo  in 
one's  ears;  the  gathering  tumult  of  cities 
smites  on  the  senses,  the  far  wastes  disap- 
pear, and  a  forest  of  chimneys  and  spires 
rises  to  take  their  places.  The  sails  of  cloud- 
armadas  furl  slowly  in  the  harboring  skies, 
and  the  sheets  of  commerce  float  in  and  usurp 
their  anchorage.  All  about  is  change.  Stand- 
ing on  these  eternal  hills  there  comes  with 
crushing  power  the  realization  of  how  insig- 
nificant is  man,  how  absolute  is  nature.  A 
thousand  races  may  rise  and  fall;  the  plough- 
shares of  one  tribe  may  scar  the  slopes,  and 
the  hoofs  of  a  following  tribe's  war-horses 
may  beat  back  the  harvest  into  a  wilderness. 
Man  alone  is  least  to  be  reckoned  with.  For 
time  and  tide  here  rest  the  prairies,  supreme 
in  the  sense  of  an  immortal  repose,  unfretted 
by  the  lapses  of  the  years. 

238 


HUNTING   WITH 
FERRETS 

THE  sport  of  hunting  rabbits  with  a 
ferret  is  bitterly  inveighed  against 
by  some  hunters  —  but  it  all  de- 
pends. In  a  country  where  there  is  plenty  of 
brush,  and  where  the  game  stays  in  the  cover 
to  a  considerable  extent,  there  is  no  need  of  a 
ferret  to  rout  them  out.  In  some  places  a 
man  can  go  out  and  get  all  the  rabbits  he 
wants  even  without  a  dog.  And  when  rab- 
bits are  hunted  with  a  dog  they  get  a  scare 
that  begins  when  they  jump  before  the  hound 
and  ends  only  when  they  are  dropped  by  a 
charge  of  shot.  In  using  a  ferret  they  are 
given  just  one  big  fright,  and  then  they  bolt 
and  are  killed  by  the  hunter,  who  waits  by 
the  burrow.  It  would  be  difficult  to  deter- 
mine, from  the  rabbit's  stand-point,  which 
mode  of  being  killed  it  preferred.  Long 
pains  are  light  ones;  cruel  ones  are  brief. 
The  chances  are  that  it  would  infinitely  pre- 
239 


OUTDOORS 


fer  that  it  should  not  be  killed  at  all.  But 
there  it  would  so  unquestionably  be  wander- 
ing from  the  point  that  all  discussion  would 
be  unprofitable. 

I  have  hunted  rabbits  in  some  localities 
where  you  might  tramp  all  day  and  not  see 
hide  or  hair  of  one  unless  you  "  toted  "  a 
ferret.  In  such  parts  of  the  country  the  un- 
derbrush and  cover  have  been  pastured  and 
burned  out,  and  a  plentiful  supply  of  brush  is 
not  to  be  had.  If  you  go  out  after  a  light 
snow  has  fallen  you  will  be  surprised  at  the 
number  of  rabbit-tracks  which  you  will  see, 
and  also  mystified,  if  you  are  unfamiliar  with 
that  kind  of  country,  by  the  scarcity  of  rab- 
bits. If  you  have  a  first-class  dog  you  may 
stir  up  a  couple  of  bunnies  out  of  the  shocks 
in  some  cornfield,  or  you  may  pick  up  two  or 
three  in  out-of-the-way  corners  of  fences  and 
fields.  But  in  the  woods  you  will  go  along 
over  miles  and  miles  of  territory,  literally  car- 
peted with  rabbit-tracks,  without  jumping  a 
solitary  rabbit. 

Along  some  of  the  northern  and  north- 
western rivers  and  among  the  woods  and  hills 
through  which  they  run,  there  are  quite  a 
240 


HUNTING    WITH    FERRETS 

number  of  rabbits.  If  you  did  not  know  how 
to  hunt  them,  and  went  there  with  or  without 
a  dog,  you  would  undoubtedly  believe  that  it 
was  the  poorest  place  on  earth  for  the  sport. 
Yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  dozens  of  well-fed 
and  respectable  rabbits  are  to  be  found  com- 
fortably stowed  away  in  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  underneath  those  same  hills.  They  are 
of  the  cave-dwelling  brand,  and  feeding,  as 
rabbits  do,  almost  entirely  by  night,  they 
retire  to  their  burrows  or  holes  in  the  day- 
time and  are  not  to  be  got  out  except  by 
means  of  the  offices  of  the  harmful,  necessary 
ferret. 

The  ferret  is  not  a  pleasing  beast  to  look 
upon,  or  to  handle.  He  is  a  long,  sinuous, 
weasel-like  looking  "  critter,"  of  a  dirty  black 
or  tawny  yellow  color,  and  he  is  always  out 
for  blood.  He  is  very  fond  of  rabbits  in  a 
sanguinary  way,  and  the  sight  of  him,  even 
in  the  subterranean  gloom  of  a  burrow,  gives 
the  average  rabbit  "  the  fan-tods."  The  fer- 
ret's walk  is  a  sort  of  creepy  glide,  very 
snaky,  very  sinister;  he  pokes  along,  snuffing 
the  air  stealthily,  his  beady  black  eyes  wear- 
ing a  thoughtful  expression,  and  his  whole 
241 


OUTDOORS 


attitude  suggestive  of  extreme  sleepiness. 
But  he  is,  when  the  occasion  demands,  as 
swift  as  a  rattlesnake  to  strike.  His  nar- 
row head  shoots  out,  and  when  he  fastens  his 
keen  teeth  in  anything  it  is  with  a  bull-dog 
grip  and  a  tiger's  thirst  for  blood.  One  of 
the  ferrets  we  used  to  hunt  with  we  called 
"  Ivy  "  because  he  went  "  creeping,  creeping 
everywhere." 

Hunting  with  ferrets  is  not  always  the  easi- 
est work  in  the  world,  for  the  beasts  have  an 
ugly  fashion  of  grabbing  off  a  rabbit  occa- 
sionally for  themselves.  Rabbits  have  a  habit 
of  snoozing  away  the  days  in  their  burrows, 
and  when  a  ferret  finds  one  in  a  doze  the 
end  comes  quickly.  And  when  he  finishes 
up  the  animal  he  takes  a  little  nap  him- 
self, say,  for  two  or  three  hours.  Sitting  out 
on  a  bleak  hill-side  for  a  quarter  of  a  day 
waiting  for  a  ferret  to  report  for  duty  is  one 
of  the  most  vexatious  things  in  the  annals  of 
sport.  And  at  other  times  your  ferret  may 
take  it  into  his  narrow  head  that  it  is  more 
comfortable  down  there  than  it  is  out  in  the 
cold,  cold  world,  and  he  will  cuddle  up  in 
the  burrow  and  compose  himself  for  a  little 
242 


HUNTING    WITH    FERRETS 

siesta  anyway,  rabbit  or  no  rabbit.  This  is 
very  distressing  to  the  hunters,  especially 
when  the  thermometer  is  away  below  the  zero 
mark.  On  these  occasions  the  blood  can  be 
quickened  by  travelling  over  the  hills  to  the 
nearest  farm-house  and  getting  the  tools  with 
which  to  dig  the  ferret  out.  When  the  ground 
is  frozen  for  some  ten  feet  or  so  this  is  not 
an  easy  job.  Tying  a  chain  or  a  stout  cord 
to  the  ferret's  leg  will  not  work,  for  there  are 
often  labyrinthian  twists  in  a  rabbit's  burrow, 
and  an  attempt  to  drag  out  your  assistant  may 
only  result  in  fetching  out  part  of  him.  This 
ruins  a  ferret  for  hunting  purposes,  no  matter 
how  much  it  may  soothe  your  wounded  feel- 
ings. 

By  shouting  down  the  burrow  a  moment 
before  the  ferret  is  introduced  into  the  aper- 
ture you  can  almost  always  awaken  the  rab- 
bit. This  will  do  away  with  the  dangers  of 
having  the  ferret  fasten  on  to  the  rabbit  while 
both  are  underground.  But  for  the  inclina- 
tion that  a  ferret  will  show  to  stay  in  the  bur- 
row sometimes,  game  or  no  game,  there  can 
be  no  precautions  taken  except  a  large  vocab- 
ulary of  uncomplimentary  remarks  for  such 

243 


OUTDOORS 


a  brute.  The  tracks  of  a  rabbit  can  easily  be 
followed  to  a  hole,  but  often  the  holes  are 
drawn  blank.  A  lively  ferret  will  creep 
through  a  burrow  in  a  very  short  space  of 
time  and  be  ready  for  another  trip  instanter. 
Some  of  them  are  quite  vicious  to  handle,  and 
great  care  should  be  taken  not  to  be  bitten. 
They  should  be  grabbed  by  the  back  of  the 
neck  as  they  emerge  from  the  hole  and 
chucked  into  the  sack  or  box  which  is  brought 
along  to  keep  them  in. 

The  rabbit  "  bolts  "  when  he  hears  or  sees 
the  ferret  coming.  He  does  not  wait  upon 
the  order  of  his  going,  but  literally  darts 
from  the  burrow  at  top-speed.  Sometimes 
there  are  two  and  even  three  rabbits  in  one 
burrow,  and  then  the  shooting  is  exceedingly 
lively.  It  is  no  great  trick  to  bowl  them  over 
as  they  come  out  of  the  burrow,  although  you 
cannot  tell  which  way  they  are  going  to  come, 
however  nicely  you  calculate  before  sending 
in  the  ferret.  Sometimes  there  is  a  hid- 
den entrance  to  the  burrow,  out  of  which  the 
rabbit  will  suddenly  emerge,  and  before  you 
can  bring  your  gun  to  bear  he  is  away  down 
a  steep  hill-side.  But  you  can  easily  follow 
244 


HUNTING    WITH    FERRETS 

him  by  his  tracks  to  the  next  hole,  and  his 
fate  is  seldom  uncertain. 

If  a  man,  or  two  men,  go  out  and  shoot  a 
dozen  rabbits  in  a  day,  using  a  ferret,  and  do 
not  keep  up  the  sport  day  in  and  day  out,  but 
take  different  localities  and  hunt  about  three 
or  four  times  in  the  season,  they  will  not  ex- 
terminate the  game.  On  a  bright  day  and 
not  too  cold  it  is  first-rate  and  exciting  shoot- 
ing. A  light  twelve-  or  sixteen-gauge  gun  and 
number  six  shot  will  answer  for  the  rabbits. 
A  road-cart  and  a  stout  horse  are  extremely 
important.  The  distances  between  favorable 
places  and  the  weight  of  a  dozen  or  so  rab- 
bits will  make  a  journey  on  foot  a  very  un- 
happy affair  of  it. 

In  the  short  winter  days  you  must  use  your 
time  in  "  drawing  "  the  holes,  and  coaxing 
out  the  ferret,  and  not  in  walking.  My  rab- 
bit shooting  has  been  in  country  where  it  was 
mostly  hilly,  and  the  shooting  was  generally 
up-  or  down-hill.  The  rabbits  are  darker- 
colored  than  where  they  stay  above  ground, 
and  they  are  usually  of  good  size  and  fat. 
One  of  the  knacks  of  this  kind  of  shooting  is 
to  find  holes  or  burrows  when  the  snow  has 
245 


OUTDOORS 


been  melted  away  and  there  is  nothing  to 
guide  you  in  locating  the  holes.  You  will  find 
them  on  the  hill-sides  and  often  near  the 
edges  of  a  creek  or  a  ravine.  You  will  also 
discover  them  under  tree-trunks  and  around 
stumps.  It  is  safe  to  try  almost  any  hole.  It 
is  unsafe  to  send  a  hungry  ferret  into  a  hole 
where  there  is  no  outlet,  for  he  will  have  too 
much  of  an  opportunity  to  seize  the  rabbit  and 
gorge  himself  under  such  circumstances. 

All  sport  has  an  element  of  cruelty  in  it, 
viewed  from  the  sentimental  stand-point.  I 
once  heard  an  eloquent  discourse  against  hunt- 
ing rabbits  delivered  by  a  gentleman  of  tender 
sensibilities,  his  mouth  full  of  a  turkey  whose 
head  he  had  hacked  off  with  a  dull  axe  to 
grace  the  Thanksgiving  feast.  The  sensible 
way  to  look  at  this  branch  of  sport  is  that 
rabbits  were  created  for  man  and  not  man  for 
the  rabbits. 


246 


THE    BARE,    BROWN 
FIELDS 

WIDE  stretches  of  rolling  country, 
with  here  and  there  a  clump  of 
leafless  trees,  where  the  farm- 
houses stand,  and  scattered  hay-stacks  adja- 
cent. On  the  slopes  sometimes  are  lines  of 
yellowish  corn-shocks  that  rise  like  tents  silent- 
ly against  the  clear  horizon.  Around  those 
shocks  may  be  found,  when  a  hunter  happens 
to  draw  near,  signs  of  industrious  rabbits, 
inquisitive  field-mice,  and  foraging  prairie- 
chickens.  Occasionally  there  is  a  slight  whorl 
of  faint  snow  drifted  in  the  spaces  between 
the  shocks,  and  if  this  be  so  the  tiny  tracks  of 
the  mice  dot  the  place,  and  perhaps  the  tracks 
of  the  prairie-chickens.  The  wind  dallies 
with  the  loose  blades  that  project  from  the 
shocks,  and  a  whistling  of  fluttering  strips 
marks  the  flight  of  northern  breezes.  The 
soil  is  hard  and  crumbly  to  the  heel,  and  the 
infrequent  little  ditches  or  pools  of  water  are 
247 


OUTDOORS 


often  rimmed  with  ice,  and  more  especially  in 
the  early  morning.  Then  the  sun  comes  up 
redly  enough,  a  burning  disk  that  lights  the 
by-ways  and  ridges  of  the  bare,  brown  fields. 

When  prairie-chickens  are  seen  it  is  usually 
early  or  quite  late,  skirmishing  in  spots  where 
cornstalks  have  been  left  standing,  and  rising 
with  a  splendidly  strong  sweep  of  pinion  as 
they  spring  from  the  ground.  They  "  pack  " 
now,  bunching  together  in  the  open  meadows 
and  pastures,  and  being  exceedingly  wary  of 
man.  They  are  hardy  and  fearless  of  the 
approaching  inclemencies  of  the  season,  for 
when  storms  blow  up  they  will  seek  the  timber 
and  thickets,  and  shelter  themselves  from 
drifting  snow  and  biting  winds. 

In  the  little  "  slues  "  that  extend  through 
the  fields  the  sumach-stalks  are  blackened  and 
denuded  of  their  leaves,  and  thistle-stalks 
cluster  in  gray  masses  on  the  sides  and  slopes 
of  ravines.  The  cover  in  these  places  — 
blackberry  vines  and  a  tangle  of  low  brush 
— extends  thickly  along  the  edges  of  the 
"  slues,"  affording  splendid  hiding-places  for 
quail.  Sometimes  there  is  a  clump  of  wil- 
lows where  the  "  slue  "  widens,  and  farther 
248 


THE    BARE,    BROWN    FIELDS 

along  toward  the  timber  scattered  trees  and 
sparse  patches  of  brush  dot  the  line  of  the 
depression  in  the  field.  Rabbits  are  always 
found  in  these  places,  and  especially  where 
there  is  a  cornfield  at  hand,  or  an  old  or- 
chard. The  grass  along  the  "  slues  "  is  rusty 
brown  and  crisp  underfoot  and  burrs  stick 
in  the  clothing  of  the  passer-by,  and  "  beggar 
lice/'  the  most  pestiferous  form  of  clinging 
weed,  gathers  in  great  quantity  on  coats  and 
trousers.  Tall  weeds,  some  of  them  disput- 
ing the  way,  and  others  broken  and  scarred 
by  the  frosts,  rise  in  all  directions. 

Over  open  pastures  the  crows  stalk,  perch- 
ing on  fences,  walking  about  the  bare  spots, 
persistent  gleaners  of  edible  trifles,  and  cer- 
tain of  a  living  where  aught  can  live.  The 
birds  have  mainly  flown  south,  all  but  the 
resolute  jaybird;  he  flies  across  the  fields, 
over  thickets,  and  through  the  woods — alert, 
mischievous,  and  confident.  His  bright  blue 
wings  trail  glintingly  among  sombre  tree- 
tops;  his  challenging  cry  echoes  amid  the 
autumn  silences.  The  robins  are  to  the  south- 
ward, the  swallow  no  longer  dips  in  the 
meadows,  the  thrush's  spotted  breast  is  ab- 
249 


OUTDOORS 


sent  from  the  woody  lanes,  the  bluebird  and 
song-sparrow  have  fled  with  earlier  days ;  but 
the  jay  still  lingers  to  brave  the  elements  and 
carry  a  herald  of  resistance  to  the  snows. 

Where  a  seed  may  be  plucked  from  a 
fence-rail,  or  a  frosted  apple  dinted  with  his 
strong  bill,  he  wanders — a  feathered  Ishmael- 
ite — with  little  heed  for  chill  winds  or  dark 
skies. 

Where  the  ploughs  have  cut  their  wake 
through  the  land  long  furrows  lie  dark  in  the 
shadow.  There  a  plough-boy  has  followed 
once,  the  blackbirds  in  his  train.  One  lone 
harrow  has  been  marooned  on  a  waste  of 
clods  and  slanted  sideways  toward  the  north. 
Miles  and  miles  of  this  ploughed  ground 
stretch  away  in  all  directions,  and  under  and 
over  it  all,  even  in  this  iron  dearth,  there  is 
a  promise  of  harvest.  The  fences,  the  barbed- 
wire  ones,  are  monotonously  practical,  and 
the  weeds  and  vines  shun  them.  But  where 
rail-fences  separate  the  fields  the  grass  hugs 
the  line,  and  divers  vines  and  weedy  growths 
rise  by  corners  and  along  the  route.  Here 
black-capped  chickadees  dodge  about;  and 
here,  too,  the  rabbits  lurk,  with  rolling  eyes 
250 


THE    BARE,    BROWN    FIELDS 

and  timid  ears,  palpitating  at  the  least  sound 
of  approaching  footsteps.  The  old  rail-fence 
has  assumed  new  dignity  and  individuality 
since  the  wire  strands  came  into  use.  Each 
is  now  a  pioneer,  with  a  history  of  its  own, 
reminiscent  of  the  old  red  school-house,  the 
husking-bee,  the  snow-drifts  piled  against  it. 

Above  shorn  stubbles,  now  blackening  in 
the  advancing  season,  the  hawk  flies,  paint- 
ing broad  circles  in  the  skies,  surveying  his 
dominion  below  with  regal  deliberation.  The 
fields  are  his  demesne.  The  wandering  mouse 
may  well  hesitate  to  emerge  from  his  covert, 
the  defenceless  rabbit  has  in  him  an  enemy 
vigilant  and  hungry.  Even  the  farm-yard  is 
not  exempt  from  his  levies,  and  the  squall  of 
hens,  the  fluttering  of  wings,  and  a  rush  for 
the  family  artillery  form  an  accompaniment 
of  his  daily  round  for  food.  Betimes  he  sits 
on  some  dead  limb  in  a  pasture  conveniently 
near  the  timber,  and  meditates  serenely.  A 
pirate  of  the  upper  air,  a  wandering  free- 
booter, he  has  no  excuses  to  make,  no  morals 
to  mend. 

In  one  corner  of  a  pasture  an  old  windmill 
creaks  in  blasts  that  drive  westward,  and 
251 


OUTDOORS 


around  a  trough  where  the  cattle  drink  the 
mud  is  ridged  with  many  hoof-marks.  It  is 
the  bleakest  corner  of  the  fields.  There  is  no 
grass  here,  and  the  wind  has  a  free  sweep 
on  the  boldest  days  that  sets  the  mill  dole- 
fully wailing  under  steel-blue  skies.  Farther 
along,  and  near  a  pair  of  bars,  stands  a  lone 
walnut-tree.  Under  it  are  scattered  the  hulls, 
and  on  a  smooth  bowlder  near  by  is  a  dark 
stain  which  accounts  for  a  heap  of  shells  close 
at  hand.  Here  the  harvesters  have  loitered 
and  cracked  the  nuts,  and  sticks  and  clubs 
lying  about  tell  of  various  assaults  on  the  old 
tree  to  bring  down  the  coveted  prizes. 

On  one  sandy  rise,  when  later  rains  wash 
the  soil  into  gullies  and  polish  pebbles  and 
bits  of  flint  that  are  exposed,  there  have  been 
Indian  arrow-heads  found.  Here,  then,  the 
savage  wandered,  and  before  him  the  mas- 
todon, maybe.  But  against  the  sky,  however 
the  flint-points  tell  of  primitive  days,  there 
comes  the  figure  of  the  sower.  Always  on 
these  rises  this  figure  seems  to  pass  or  wait, 
the  right  hand  outstretched,  the  left  carrying 
a  bag  of  grain.  In  the  day  of  the  scythe 
and  cradle,  the  by-gone  days  of  boyhood, 
252 


THE    BARE,    BROWN    FIELDS 

this  picture  was  a  familiar  one  and  was  seen 
usually  on  the  higher  ridges.  A  patient  form 
and  a  steady  one,  with  awkward  rhythmic 
motion  scattering  the  seed.  And  so  even  in 
these  times,  when  he  is  but  a  memory,  he  is  a 
vivid  one  enough  to  stand  apparition-like  in 
the  gray  November  weather,  the  right  palm 
thrown  sideways,  the  left  hand  holding  a 
sack  of  grain. 

Where  the  stubbles  lie  in  deep-rusted,  wide 
stretches  from  cornfield  to  country  road,  the 
ploughs  have  tumbled  them  into  bristly  fur- 
rows now,  and  nothing  but  the  winds  may 
glean  a  stray  kernel  from  them.  The  winds 
are  seldom  quiet  in  the  fields  after  October 
has  passed;  even  on  the  stillest  days  there 
is  always  some  mousing  zephyr  dipping  down 
now  and  then  to  dance  a  dusty  saraband 
with  a  stray  cornstalk,  or  whirl  a  miniature 
funnel  of  dust  along  a  road-side  rut.  Winds 
go  in  flocks  and  vary  as  birds  do  in  their 
movements  and  peculiarities.  In  dry  standing 
stalks  they  flutter  and  chase  about  in  great 
glee,  rattling  dangling  shreds  of  stalks  and 
sometimes  shaking  the  whole  field  furiously. 
Or  they  will  capriciously  bend  the  tops  of  a 

253 


OUTDOORS 


clump  of  willows  in  a  "  slue  "  amid  the  fields 
and  not  lift  a  leaf  from  the  ground  below. 
They  harvest  the  oak-leaves  and  the  yellow 
leaves  of  hickories  and  then  disperse  them 
in  flying  windrows,  sticking  them  in  thorny 
hedges  or  wasting  them  over  the  fields. 

But  always  to  the  keener  sense  of  one  who 
loves  and  is  familiar  with  outdoors  there  is  a 
mirage  of  harvest  even  on  the  gloomiest  days. 
There  is  sight  of  waving  tassels  of  cornsilk 
and  bending  sheen  of  wheat;  there  are  buck- 
wheat blossoms  and  dronings  of  the  bee, 
the  flash  of  swallows  in  the  sunshine,  the 
clatter  of  reapers  on  the  hill.  In  the  fence- 
corners  there  are  gay  bits  of  color — the  pur- 
ple of  the  thistle,  the  green  of  the  hedges, 
and  the  slate-hued  shyness  of  a  prying  cat- 
bird. There  is  music  in  many  keys,  pictures 
from  every  side.  So  even  now,  with  a  harp 
of  wailing  November  breezes  to  mock  the 
vision,  one  can  stand  by  naked  meadow  and 
"  scarecrow  "  guarded  spaces  and  find  Ely- 
sium in  the  bare,  brown  fields. 


254 


QUAIL    SHOOTING 

IF  a  vote  were  to  be  taken  among  the  men 
who  hunt  with  dog  and  gun  from  the 
Mississippi  valley  to  the  Atlantic  coast 
and  from  the  Great  Lakes  to  the  Gulf,  to 
determine  the  question  of  the  most  popular 
game-bird,  the  quail  would  get  the  overwhelm- 
ing majority  of  the  votes.  "  Bob-white  "  is 
a  bird  who  fully  deserves  his  popularity.  No 
bird  in  America  gives  as  great  sport  with  the 
dog,  the  opportunity  for  fine  work  in  the  field 
being  unlimited  in  quail  shooting.  The  quail 
is  a  bird  that  has  a  friendly  feeling  for  man, 
and  is  found  following  the  march  of  civiliza- 
tion and  the  confines  of  the  farms.  The  val- 
ley- and  mountain-quail  of  the  west  and 
south-west  cannot  be  compared  to  the  true 
"  bob-white  "  for  sport,  being  birds  which 
depend  a  great  deal  upon  their  legs  to  elude 
the  hunters,  and  living  in  a  country  where 
good  work  by  the  dogs  is  almost  impossible. 
Then,  too,  these  western  and  south-western 

255 


OUTDOORS 


quail  go  in  bunches  of  from  fifty  to  two  hun- 
dred birds,  and  will  not  lie  nearly  so  well  to 
the  dogs  as  their  brown  cousins  of  the  east- 
ern, southern,  and  middle  states  do. 

Notwithstanding  the  great  increase  of 
hunters  and  the  introduction  of  breech-load- 
ing guns,  the  quail  in  the  middle  states  are 
holding  their  own  in  point  of  numbers.  This 
is  mainly  owing  to  the  strictness  of  the  game- 
laws  and  a  general  feeling  among  sportsmen 
that  these  birds,  above  other  upland  game, 
must  be  protected  at  all  hazards.  One  of  the 
chief  pleasures  of  quail  shooting  is  to  have  a 
good  dog  along  that  has  been  well  broken  to 
this  kind  of  shooting.  A  quail-dog  or  "  bird- 
dog/'  as  he  is  often  called,  takes  as  much  in- 
terest in  the  sport  as  his  master  does. 

In  hunting  the  average  run  of  country  most 
of  the  birds  will  take  to  the  thickest  cover 
they  can  get  to  after  the  bevy  has  been 
flushed.  They  feed  in  the  morning,  and  after 
about  ten  o'clock  retire  to  the  thickets.  Dis- 
putes have  risen  from  time  immemorial  as 
to  whether  they  feed  again  regularly,  late  in 
the  afternoon.  Frank  Forester  says  that  they 
do.  That  they  sometimes  do  I  believe  to  be 

256 


QUAIL    SHOOTING 


true,  but  that  they  make  a  regular  practice  of 
feeding  in  the  afternoon  I  doubt.  To  a  man 
who  has  hunted  quail  for  years  the  country 
wherever  he  goes  is  an  open  book,  so  far  as 
the  best  place  to  go  for  the  birds  is  concerned. 
He  can  tell  at  a  glance  where  the  likeliest 
places  are.  In  a  wheat  and  corn  country  the 
birds  will  be  found  in  the  edges  of  the  stub- 
bles and  in  the  cornfields  up  to  nine  or  ten 
o'clock,  and  after  that  in  the  sloughs,  thick- 
ets, woods,  or  hedges  adjoining  their  feeding- 
grounds.  They  are  birds  that  require  water, 
and  as  a  rule  they  will  be  found  along  bushy 
creeks  next  to  the  fields  after  feeding-time. 
Old  orchards  are  fine  places  for  them,  espe- 
cially around  deserted  farm-houses.  In  a 
strictly  prairie  country  the  osage  orange 
hedges  are  their  favorite  haunts  after  feed- 
ing in  the  morning. 

When  a  bevy  rises,  with  that  rush  of  wings 
so  characteristic  of  the  birds,  the  novice  may 
think  there  is  going  to  be  a  great  destruction 
of  quail.  But  the  first  shots  may  be  the  last  at 
that  particular  bunch.  Or  maybe  one  or  two 
other  shots  may  be  had,  and  no  more.  The 
quail  is  a  very  puzzling  bird  at  times,  and  a 
257 


OUTDOORS 


bevy  occasionally  scatters  all  over  the  adjoin- 
ing country  when  it  gets  up.  Of  course,  with 
a  good  dog  a  man  will  generally  start  a  few 
birds  from  each  bevy,  but  in  heavy  cover,  and 
where  the  birds  have  been  shot  at  several 
times,  they  get  "  educated  "  and  play  tricks 
with  the  hunters.  It  is  not  at  all  uncommon 
to  put  up  a  bevy  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  birds 
and  then  only  get  two  or  three  quail  out  of  it. 
The  bevy  scatters  in  all  directions  on  first  ris- 
ing, but  most  of  them  will  drop  down  in  one 
direction.  A  few  stray  birds  may  go  in  an 
entirely  different  direction  from  the  main 
body  of  the  flock,  and  they  may  be  hunted 
later.  Quail  do  not  fly  far  as  a  rule,  gener- 
ally darting  into  cover  again  at  from  two  to 
three  or  four  hundred  yards.  Sometimes  they 
will  fly  farther,  and  again  drop  in  closer.  It 
depends  on  whether  they  have  been  hunted 
and  on  the  nature  of  the  cover. 

It  is  simply  amazing  what  a  small  bit  of 
cover  will  hide  a  quail,  and  how  he  will  stick 
to  his  hiding-place.  Sometimes  he  will  hug 
the  ground  in  the  open  woods  under  a  tree 
where  the  leaves  are  thickly  scattered  on  the 
ground,  and  although  the  dog  is  fairly  slob- 

258 


QUAIL    SHOOTING 


bering  with  excitement  as  he  points  the  bird, 
you  will  not  be  able  to  see  "  bob-white " 
until  he  flies.  They  have  a  great  trick  of  slip- 
ping under  the  overhanging  fringe  of  bank 
along  a  creek  when  driven  into  that  kind  of 
cover,  and  a  dog  is  needed  to  get  them  out 
of  these  hiding-places  always.  Sometimes 
they  will  fly  into  the  trees  and  fool  a  hunter, 
and  they  will  take  advantage  of  fences  and 
tree-trunks  when  they  get  up,  putting  such 
objects  between  the  hunter  and  themselves. 
They  will  get  up  back  of  you,  too,  after  you 
have  passed,  and  sometimes  fly  close  to  the 
ground,  or  spring  straight  up  through  the 
trees  at  times,  and  in  many  ways  elude  the 
hail  of  shot. 

They  get  into  full  speed  from  the  jump, 
and  yet  a  quail  is  not  a  hard  bird  to  shoot, 
excepting  in  thick  cover  or  in  tall  standing 
corn.  It  takes  quick  shooting,  but  at  close 
range,  as  most  of  the  work  is  done,  a  man 
should  get  three  out  of  five  in  fairly  open 
cover  right  along.  The  birds  are  fully  grown 
by  the  first  of  November,  and  well  able  to 
take  care  of  themselves.  It  is  curious  to  note 
the  difference  between  birds  that  are  found 
259 


OUTDOORS 


in  the  prairie  country  and  "  timber-quail,"  as 
they  are  called,  that  are  found  in  the  creek 
and  river-bottoms,  and  which  feed  to  some 
extent  on  acorns.  The  timber-quail  are 
darker  colored  and  perceptibly  larger  than 
the  prairie  birds,  and  are  swifter  and  stronger 
on  the  wing.  Timber-quail  are,  generally 
speaking,  remarkably  fine  birds — big,  strong, 
and  affording  splendid  sport.  There  is,  of 
course,  absolutely  nothing  to  differentiate  the 
quail  in  the  timber  and  the  quail  of  the  prai- 
ries, excepting  these  points  of  size  and  gener- 
ally darker  coloring.  Their  flight  is  stronger 
and  swifter  because  they  are  bigger  birds. 

For  quail  shooting  a  sixteen-gauge  gun, 
cylinder-bored  in  both  barrels,  is  the  best  gun. 
Nine-tenths  of  the  shots  are  made  within 
forty-five  yards,  most  of  them  within  thirty 
or  thirty-five  yards.  The  choke-bored  gun  in 
quail  shooting  cuts  the  bird  to  ribbons  or 
smashes  the  flesh  into  a  jelly.  A  straight- 
stocked,  cylinder  bore,  six  to  seven  pounds  in 
weight,  with  nitro  powder  and  number  eight 
shot,  is  the  right  combination  for  this  kind  of 
shooting.  You  don't  have  to  hold  ahead  of 
a  quail  much  with  the  nitro  powder,  except 
260 


QUAIL    SHOOTING 


in  cross-shots.  In  the  quartering  shots  a  few 
inches  ahead  is  enough  in  twenty  or  thirty 
yards.  In  the  straightaway  shots  the  bird  is 
usually  rising  at  first,  and  the  gun  should  be 
held  a  trifle  over.  Quail,  when  full-grown, 
can  carry  away  quite  a  few  shot,  and  even 
when  hit  hard  will  manage  to  flutter  off  and 
hide.  Give  them  the  centre  of  the  charge. 
On  the  cross-shots  you  should  hold  ahead 
several  inches  when  the  birds  are  close,  and 
farther  whence  bird  is  some  distance  away. 
Either  a  setter  or  a  pointer  dog  will  do  the 
work  acceptably  if  broken  to  quail  shooting. 
Don't  keep  shouting  at  your  dog.  Be  patient 
with  him,  even  if  he  does  poor  work,  and  try 
to  help  him  do  better.  Nothing  in  field 
shooting  is  quite  so  disagreeable  as  the  spec- 
tacle of  a  man  shouting  at  his  dog  and 
making  every  one  along  feel  uncomfortable. 
"  Jolly  "  the  man  who  has  the  dog  by  raptur- 
ous exclamation  at  every  point  the  dog 
makes.  Tell  him  that  you  wish  you  had  a 
camera  along  to  take  the  picture;  the  most 
suspicious  man  on  earth  will  accept  as  gospel- 
truth  any  flattery  you  may  give  him  about 
his  dog.  Get  him  to  talk  about  his  dog  when 
261 


OUTDOORS 


you  stop  for  lunch,  and  tell  any  strangers  that 
you  happen  to  meet  that  the  dog  is  the  great- 
est dog  on  earth.  The  dog  will  know  bet- 
ter, but  his  owner  won't. 

Never  travel  more  than  three  in  a  crowd. 
Two  are  plenty,  but  more  than  three  are  dan- 
gerous. Some  enthusiastic  member  in  a  quar- 
tet is  apt  to  pepper  you  with  a  few  pellets  of 
shot  in  a  moment  of  temporary  aberration 
and  his  "  By  George,  old  man,  I'm  awfully 
sorry!  "  is  only  partially  soothing  to  the  vic- 
tim. Do  not,  above  all  things,  clean  out  a 
bevy  of  birds,  even  if  quail  are  scarce.  Leave 
a  few  for  next  season.  Twenty  quail  to  a 
man  are  as  many  as  should  be  shot,  even  in 
a  country  where  fifty  or  more  could  be  bagged. 


262 


IN    WINTER    WOODS 

THE  prevailing  tints  of  white  and 
black  in  the  January  woods  give 
an  erroneous  idea  of  solemnity  to 
one  who  views  them  at  a  distance.  The 
bleakness,  the  isolation,  and  the  staring  colors 
which  lend  such  sharp  contrasts  emphasize 
this  feeling.  To  those  who  are  strangers  to 
the  delights  of  a  tramp  through  snowy  for- 
ests, the  wintry  wastes  hold  no  mysteries  of 
sound  and  silence,  no  revelations  or  sugges- 
tions. But  to  those  who  have  for  many  a 
long  year  followed  the  gun,  the  woods  in 
winter  are  especially  significant  of  life  and 
wonder,  of  beauty  and  of  music. 

To  begin  with,  there  are  everywhere  the 
microscopic  effects  of  the  season.  Each  tree, 
stripped  of  its  foliage,  stands  nakedly  in  the 
crisp  and  clear  atmosphere  as  a  mast  with  all 
sails  furled  stands  out  at  sea.  Here  and  there 
perhaps  a  brown  leaf  clings  to  a  branch  of 
263 


OUTDOORS 


some  old  oak  or  hickory,  but  the  impression 
in  general  is  that  of  absolute  starkness.  The 
drifts  below  add  to  this,  and  under  them  the 
summer's  greenery  has  long  since  been  disin- 
tegrating and  assuming  new  form  and  sub- 
stance. The  clearness  of  the  atmosphere  is 
very  marked  near  at  hand,  but  farther  away, 
and  particularly  if  the  surrounding  country 
rises  into  hills,  a  faint  blue  haze  gathers  like 
the  smoke  flung  from  a  farm-house  chimney. 
Stillness  is  what  will  be  found  paramount  in 
the  by-paths  and  thickets  unless  one  is  dis- 
posed to  be  curious  and  plunge  deeper  into 
the  woods  in  search  of  its  life  and  inhabitants. 
The  birds  for  the  most  part  are  gone.  The 
robin,  the  bluebird,  the  blackbirds,  the  wood- 
peckers, cat-birds,  thrushes,  and  orioles,  have 
fled  away  before  the  hurrying  vanguards  of 
the  north.  But  down  along  the  creek-bot- 
toms the  blue-jay's  challenge  still  sounds,  and 
his  bright  blue  wings  flit  through  the  dusky 
treetops.  Wind  blow  north  or  wind  blow 
south,  his  hardy  nature  rises  equal  to  the  test 
of  either  burning  sun  or  driving  snows.  The 
hawk,  at  odd  times,  may  be  seen  circling  high 
up,  but  he  is  an  infrequent  sight  during  the 
264 


IN   WINTER   WOODS 


colder  weather.  The  owls  couch  in  the  thick 
brush  or  perch  in  sheltered  crevices  in  the 
hollow  trees.  The  chickadees — pert,  black- 
capped  gossips — dodge  about  at  the  edges  of 
the  woods  and  busy  themselves  along  the  rail- 
fences  by  the  fields.  Nowhere  is  the  iron 
hand  of  winter  felt  so  harshly  as  in  the  mead- 
ows and  fields.  There  a  few  broken  and 
discolored  cornstalks  flap  or  creak  in  the 
winds  that  sweep  by,  and  the  winding-sheet 
of  snow  is  unrelieved  by  aught  to  break  the 
cheerless  monotony.  Overhead  in  the  timber 
a  shadow  sometimes  falls  across  the  snow, 
the  shade  of  a  broad  and  wandering  wing, 
and  the  hoarse,  harsh  cry  of  a  foraging  crow 
echoes  raucously  in  the  trees.  The  course  of 
a  crow's  flight  through  heavy  timber  is  hardly 
discernible,  so  well  do  the  dark  branches 
blend  with  his  dusky  pinions.  Most  brilliant 
of  all  colors  in  the  woods  of  middle  America 
during  the  winter  months  is  the  red-bird's 
wing  and  the  jaunty  set  of  his  crested  head. 
Alert,  saucy,  and  suspicious,  he  appears  in 
the  thicket  beyond,  drops  from  sight,  reap- 
pears, and  again  is  gone.  His  beautiful  flam- 
ing flight  is  a  line  of  fire  along  the  drifted 
265 


OUTDOORS 


brush-wood — "  the  light  that  never  was  on 
sea  or  land." 

The  philosophy  and  inner  revealments  of 
snow-enveloped  woods  are  not  to  be  enjoyed 
with  a  gun.  If  you  bring  the  gun  along  the 
hunter's  instinct  will  urge  you  on,  and  some 
things  will  escape  you,  however  successful 
you  are  with  the  game  you  seek.  A  stout 
stick,  a  lunch,  and  three  or  four  apples  are 
all  you  need  for  one  of  these  tramps  through 
the  timber.  The  snowy  whiteness  of  a  creek's 
frozen  surface  is  a  page  where  all  sorts  of 
pothooks  and  hieroglyphics  are  written  by 
the  animals  and  birds  that  haunt  the  woods. 
Chief  of  all  of  these  indications  is  the  rab- 
bit's track.  Here,  there,  and  everywhere  these 
tracks  turn  and  cross,  and  in  some  places  they 
are  crowded  as  closely  together  as  the  tracks 
of  a  flock  of  sheep  are  sometimes  massed. 
The  mink's  track  will  be  found  there,  and 
the  foot-note  jotted  down  by  the  wily  "  Br'er 
Coon."  Sometimes  a  sweeping  aside  of  the 
snow  and  the  marks  of  a  bird's  feet  will  show 
where  a  ruffed  grouse  has  stood  on  the  ice 
and  brushed  the  snow  away  with  his  tail- 
feathers.  Mice-tracks,  wee  dots  on  the  snow, 
266 


IN   WINTER   WOODS 


lead  up  to  some  harboring  log,  and  the  sign- 
manual  of  the  quail  is  seen  crossing  over  to 
disappear  in  a  neighboring  thicket.  Where 
the  chickadees  have  been  dodging  about  on 
the  thinly  strewn  creek's  bed  their  tiny  claws 
have  etched  sharp  little  marks  which  fade 
quickly  when  the  sun  comes  up  and  over  to 
investigate. 

Out  in  the  heavier  woods  you  will  find  oc- 
casionally where  bowl-like  depressions  in  the 
snow  at  regular  intervals  lead  from  tree  to 
tree.  These  mark  where  a  squirrel  has 
jumped  along.  In  the  winter  days  when  the 
sun  shines  and  the  woods  begin  to  warm  up  a 
trifle  a  fox-squirrel  will  be  tempted  out  to 
make  society  calls,  and  he  goes  bouncing 
along  at  such  times  in  a  series  of  undignified 
jumps.  If  you  care  to  rout  a  rabbit  out,  go 
into  the  thickets  and  around  fallen  logs  in 
the  timber  where  the' underbrush  is  pretty 
thick,  and  you  will  find  one  there  some-, 
where.  He  will  soon  put  a  good  distance 
between  your  path  and  his,  and  will,  doubt- 
less, wonder  at  not  hearing  the  crack  of  a 
gun  or  the  bark  of  a  dog  as  he  scurries 
away. 

267 


OUTDOORS 


Down  along  the  creek's  edge,  under  old 
logs,  you  may  find  mullein  leaves,  still  soft 
and  the  lower  leaves  yet  unblackened  by  the 
frosts.  And  there,  too,  will  sometimes  be 
found  moss  which  is  still  green  and  vigor- 
ous. The  grass  for  the  most  part  is  abso- 
lutely dead  and  of  a  tawny  brown  color,  and 
yet  it  lies  thick  and  heavy  underneath  the 
snows.  Hickory-nuts  and  acorns  are  scattered 
through  this  withered  growth,  and  many  a 
patient  woodland  forager  has  knowledge  of 
that  fact.  Below  the  icy  shield  over  the  creek 
the  current  flows ;  and  cold  as  the  water  is  it 
holds  the  music  of  summer  in  its  minors  and 
trebles.  Every  day  when  the  sun  shines  there 
is  a  glamour  of  April  in  the  air,  a  mirage  of 
brighter  and  sunnier  hours.  That  black  reed 
by  the  frozen  pool — the  red-wing  is  tilting  it 
down,  and  his  whistle  sounds  as  clear  as  run- 
ning water.  The  sh'aft  of  sunshine  across 
that  limb — was  it  a  golden-winged  wood- 
pecker's wing?  Even  the  woods  themselves, 
blackened  though  they  be,  seem  only  slumber- 
ing and  waiting  for  the  clarion  of  March  to 
blow  them  into  sap  drapery  of  green  leaf 
again.  Only  when  the  days  are  dull  and  the 
268 


IN    WINTER    WOODS 


drifts  pile  high  are  the  woods  wrapped 'in 
gloom.  Then,  when  the  skies  are  gray  and 
skeleton  clouds  hang  like  cobwebs  on  a  wintry 
ceiling,  and  the  bitter  winds  blow  desolation 
of  wraith-like  snow-flurries  along  the  paths, 
the  tall  trees  mourn.  Their  branches  creak 
and  sway  sadly  in  the  blasts.  Then  the  kindly 
evidence  of  beast  and  bird  is  blotted  out  by 
the  shifting,  furry  blankets  which  tumble 
among  the  tree-trunks.  And  the  lack  of  sun- 
light is  the  loss  of  life.  The  jay  and  red- 
bird  dive  into  densest  cover,  and  the  grim 
old  crow  huddles  somewhere  out  of  the  storm 
as  best  he  can. 

But  when  the  wind  dies  away  and  the  gen- 
erous sun  dips  down  to  the  earth  once  more 
the  woods  are  glad  again,  and  many  a  subtle 
hint  of  change  is  heralded  and  shadowed 
forth.  There  is  promise  and  suggestion  in 
the  sun's  light  whether  in  January  or  June. 
And  desolate  aisles  of  the  forest  flame  up  as 
the  sleeping  colors  of  some  old  cathedral's 
art-stained  windows  wake  when  the  western 
fire  flares  across.  Bud  and  blossom  seem  near 
at  hand,  and  a  feathery  drift  of  toppling 
snows  might  almost  be  a  bank  of  daisies — 
269 


OUTDOORS 


Sweet  daisies,  by  the  vagrant  seasons  thinned, 
Born  of  the  sun  and  cradled  in  the  wind. 

Color  then  there  surely  is,  and  life  and 
beauty  and  music  in  the  lilt  of  hidden  water,, 
of  wailing  branches  and  aeolian  harps  above. 
But  surely  not  to  the  careless  or  unthinking 
natures,  nor  to  those  who  do  not  feel  uplifted 
and  exhilarated  by  the  dreams  and  fancies  that 
lurk  beneath  this  hood  and  shade  of  winter, 
which,  after  all,  is  only  the  mask  of  spring. 

If  you  care  to,  you  may  find  enough  to 
make  a  bouquet  of  as  you  stroll  through  the 
woods  on  a  bright  day,  even  if  the  season  of, 
snow  has  already  entered  on  its  reign.  The 
violets  and  wind-flowers  are  mere  ghostly 
memories,  of  course,  and  the  harebells  have 
faded.  The  blue  flag-lilies  of  the  marshy  pools 
and  the  primroses  of  the  slopes  are  under  the 
snows.  The  dainty  honeysuckles  are  dreams 
of  a  summer  yet  to  be.  Notwithstanding  all 
these  absences,  there  are  still  color  and  life 
and  beauty  if  one  but  will  seek  for  them. 

Gray  thistle-pods,  all  rifled  of  their  seeds, 
Swaying  and  trembling  in  each  passing  gust; 
December  grasses,  tarnished  deep  with  rust, 
And  fluffy  blooms  of  nameless  tufted  weeds; 
270 


IN    WINTER    WOODS 


And  here,  where  shelvingly  a  slope  recedes 
Down  to  the  prisoned  marsh's  icy  crust, 
Thorn  twigs  are  seen,  their  daggers  outward  thrust, 
And  blackened  stems  of  brittle  river  reeds. 

These  you  may  gather;  all  are  nature's  own, 
Touched  by  the  sunlight,  gladdened  by  the  rain; 
And  beautiful  if  you  should  deem  them  so, 
As  here  they  dream  among  the  byways  lone, 
Illumined  by  the  bitter-sweet's  bright  stain, 
Red  as  a  winter  sunset's  afterglow. 


271 


